


White Birds

by lilabut



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Gen, Medical Procedures, Minor Character Death, Pregnancy, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:59:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 77,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea." - A tragic incident forces Sybil and Tom to return to Downton, but they soon realize that safety is not all that makes one feel secure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. those who stay

**Author's Note:**

> This was written last year, before season three aired, so it's AU after the 2011 Christmas Special.  
> The title of the story is inspired by the poem White Birds by William Butler Yeats.

_We'll be washed and buried one day my girl_  
And the time we were given will be left for the world  
The flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by plague  
So let the memories be good for those who stay

[ **Winter Winds, Mumford and Sons** ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_-nYA5BWDA)

 

Her heels ached as she walked up the wooden stairs to their small flat. The hallway was as dark as night, no windows to let in what little light this rainy September evening still offered.

 

Leaving out the second to last step, which, during a damp downpour like this, always caused a squeak so loud Sybil was afraid of upsetting Mrs Gallagher, their elderly land lady who lived in the flat beneath theirs, she fished for the keys in the small bag she carried.

 

Mrs Gallagher was a lovely woman, hair almost white, always smiling, but with a strict tone in her voice that reminded Sybil of a governess rather than a land lady. From the day Tom and her had first looked at the small flat, Mrs Gallagher had been nothing short of hospitable, inviting them to tea and loading up their flat with ancient furniture which _that dreadful late husband of mine insisted on cluttering the place with_.

 

It did not matter that the chairs wobbled, that there were burn marks and dents in the table, that they had to replace four out of five drawers with paper boxes, or that the sofa was as uncomfortable as a church bench during a service in winter. Mrs Gallagher had been the only person not to cast glances at Sybil, not to change her mind about the availability of the flat when they heard her undeniable English accent, the only person not to ask questions.

 

To her, Sybil and Tom had simply been a soon-to-be-married young couple, two people with a promise for the future, to bring life back into the house that her husbands early death had left in broody loneliness.

 

So, they bought cloth to cover the dents and marks on the table, and put one or two cushions more than necessary on the sofa, put up their handful of photographs, picked brand-new curtains as a wedding gift from Tom's sisters, and bought a new bed from the money her father had been willing to give.

 

Early on, during those first days into their marriage, when everything was brand new and clumsy, when they bumped into each other in the mornings and could not seem to figure out a routine just yet, Sybil had felt uncomfortable and disappointed that they had needed her family's money to buy a proper bed that would last.

 

Those doubts had only lasted for a short while, though, and Tom had put every effort into taking her mind of the past and making new memories. _Their_ memories.

 

The key chain cluttered loudly in the dark hallway, and it reminded Sybil of Mrs Hughes walking through the downstairs corridors of Downton, where she used to sneak around as a child. The dangling of the key chain had always announced that she was about to be discovered by the housekeeper, and the thrill it had sent through her as a child is nothing compared to the thrill she felt now, holding her own key chain in her hands.

 

Never had she really owned a key to something this valuable before. Yes, there had been the heart-shaped key to the music box she left behind, and the filigree key that unlocked her jewellery box. But the few keys held together by the small chain in her hand mean so much more. The key to the shed behind the house, filled to the brim with empty boxes, and unpacked things, buckets, canisters and the rusty bike that Mrs Gallagher's husband had used to get to work everyday. The key to the small drawer that held what little jewellery and gold she now owned, all pieces she never wore any more these days. Two keys to the store cupboards in the hospital. The key to the front door downstairs, although Mrs Gallagher hardly ever kept it locked. And the key now resting in the palm of her hand. The key to her flat. To _their_ flat.

 

It meant so much more than the music box she had loved so much as a child, and so much more than the box that used to store jewels and pearls and gold and silver, all worth more than a year's rent.

 

To own a key to her home, a home that she helped to provide for - it made everything so real to Sybil, that she felt the value weigh in on her palm.

 

She had to push against the door with all her might to open it, and as usual, entered the flat brushing off debris of dark green paint from her coat. They stuck mercilessly now that the dark fabric was soaked with rain, and Sybil sighed in annoyance as she pushed the door shut behind her.

 

To her surprise, the tiny flat was dimly lit, and a rush of warmth flooded through her veins, the crackling of fire audible amongst the wind howling outside and the rain splattering against the milky windows.

 

“Tom?” she called into the small space of the flat, the sitting room she was standing in empty, but Tom's coat hung over the chair by the desk.

 

“In the kitchen.”

 

Sybil's forehead wrinkled in confusion, and she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece to see if the wind and rain had miraculously stretched out the short distance she walked home from the hospital. But no, it was only a few minutes later than usual, and Tom should not be home for at least another hour.

 

“You're very early,” she said into his direction, placing her bag and gloves on the small shelf by the door and beginning to unbutton her coat, “Is everything alright?”

 

According to his mother, Tom had never been prone to illness, and as far as Sybil remembered, there had never been a day when Mr Pratt had to stand in for him because he was ill. But, even after everything she had seen during the war and in the few months she has worked at the hospital now, it was Lavinia's lifeless face that haunted Sybil the most. How perfectly well she had looked, and how they had stood in front of her grave only a few days later.

 

More than everything, it had taught Sybil how short life really was, and how unexpectedly it could end.

 

“I'm fine,” Tom answered, and as Sybil turned around to hang up her coat, she saw him standing in the doorway to the kitchen, no tie, only his shirt, the two top buttons undone, smiling at her, “There were a few things to wrap up, but Kieran offered to do it for me.”

 

Sybil nodded, sitting on one of the wobbly chairs to take of her shoes, aching to free her freezing, wet feet.

 

“I don't think he's very eager to come home, if you ask me,” Tom continued, laughing as he stepped back into the kitchen.

 

“Why is that?” Sybil asked, placing her shoes by the fireplace to dry, and beginning to untie her apron as she joined her husband in the kitchen.

 

“Apparently his wife's on a bit of a rampage since he got the job down in Waterford. She doesn't want to move,” Tom explained, and Sybil smiled brightly as she saw him slicing bread, a steaming pot next to him.

 

“You made dinner,” she said happily, only now noticing the dull ache in her stomach. Walking up to the short counter to peak into the pot, she could not even remember what she had eaten for lunch.

 

Tom turned to look at his wife standing next to him, smiling brightly at the bubbling soup.

 

“I thought you might be cold. It's been nasty weather all day.”

 

“Horrible,” Sybil added, standing on her toes to gently kiss Tom's cheek.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered, before leaving him to manage to bread while she rummaged through the one cupboard they owned, looking for the set of plates they used when they ate by themselves.

 

“I should think he might have told her about his application sooner. I do feel sorry for her. Having to move so sudden like.”

 

“That's true,” Tom said, setting the bread on the small table, watching as Sybil set the last bowl down, “It is a big chance for him, but I don't quite understand why he did not tell her earlier, either.”

 

“I suppose I can be glad that your mother would tear you apart should you ever talk about moving away again,” Sybil chuckled, stepping into Tom's open arms.

 

It was still thrilling and exciting and new, being able to simple let him envelop her in his arms, to lean her cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat, to rest the palms of her hands against his stomach.

 

After all the years she had only fleetingly dreamed about this, imagined in in the dark and lonely hours of the night, daydreamed about it when she saw nothing but the back of his head as he drove her through the countryside, it was all finally real. She felt more confident than during the early days, back when her sisters had stopped them from eloping, back when she had first set foot on Irish soil.

 

Tom's hands stroke up and down her back gently, softly, and only briefly before he kissed her forehand and turned back to the soup, but his gesture was so full of love, devotion and care, like everything about him.

 

His passion, his enthusiasm, the way he held her hand at every available moment, the way he managed to steal a kiss wherever they were, the way he held her at night, the way he looked at her in the morning, and the way he always asked for one more kiss - Sybil knew he was still afraid that she was going to float away, slip through his fingers, or change her mind.

 

It was real, they were real, but nevertheless, it seemed like a dream come true, like a hazy swirl of happy memories piling up by the hour, and sometimes she found herself sharing his fear that she was going to wake up in her bed at Downton, to find herself strapped to the life she had been so eager to escape from, and to find Tom gone, to find that his patience had not been endless after all.

 

But these moments, these simple moments of sharing an embrace and helping him prepare dinner, were enough most days, enough to calm her and reassure her that everything _was_ real.

 

“Good thing you mentioned my mother,” Tom said while setting the steaming pot onto the counter, interrupting Sybil's thoughts, “She wants us to come over for dinner next week.”

 

“Did she say when?”

 

“She said it doesn't matter,” Tom replied, carefully placing the hot pot on the table while Sybil sat down, fidgeting with her nurses cap, “When is your late shift?”

 

“Tuesday and Wednesday. Maybe ask her for Friday. Do you have to work this Saturday?”

 

“Doesn't look like it at the moment. Then again, if Kieran's wife decides to kill him, that might change.”

 

They laughed in unison, steam warming up the air between them, and for a while, they fell into a comfortable silence. The soup warmed Sybil from the inside out, while underneath the table, she rubbed her feet against each other, hoping to warm them up, if only a little.

 

Every bone in her body seemed to ache, and slowly, Sybil's eyes started to become heavy with exhaustion.

 

“Did you have a nice day?” she asked after a few minutes, reaching for the bread.

 

“Fairly. Connelly seems to think I can research a dozen articles all in one day, but he seems to finally appreciate what I actually get done a bit more. And with Kieran leaving soon, he's becoming a bit more depended on me. Hasn't found a replacement yet.”

 

“Well, he should hurry. You said Kieran leaves by the end of the month? It wouldn't be fair for you to take over all his work, as well.”

 

“I could handle it for a while, but we're swamped as it is. How was your day?”

 

“Good,” Sybil answered, catching the last bits of soup with a piece of bread, “The little boy with pneumonia that got in last week is much better. And the police found his parents.”

 

“That's great. And that one nurse, is she still making things difficult for you?”

 

Sybil sighed. Everyone at the hospital had been very welcoming, grateful for her experience and for an extra hand, and if they had problems with her being English, they were good at concealing them. Everyone except Nurse Hayes, who, at every possible moment, made very clear how little she thought of Sybil.

 

After two weeks at the hospital, Edna, another nurse and the one that Sybil got along with best, had told her that Nurse Hayes' husband had been shot by British soldiers a year before. From that day on, Sybil tried to silently accept the woman's hatred. However, after everything had settled, their strained work relationship had started to become a serious issue.

 

“It was alright this week. She has a bit of a cold, I suppose that has put a dampener on her temper.”

 

“I'm sure she'll come around one day. If you two can't work together properly, and she's the cause, they'll have to do something.”

 

“I hope that day won't come,” Sybil sighed, pressing her fingers against her eyes.

 

“You look tired. Do you want to get ready for bed while I clean this up?”

 

“Oh, no. Let me clean this up, you already made dinner for us. You get ready, I'll do this.”

 

Tom knew better than to argue with Sybil on this, so he kissed her on the cheek before leaving the kitchen, taking her discarded nursing cap with him.

 

“I'll put it on your dressing table,” he called from the living room, and a second later Sybil heard their bedroom door creak open.

 

The few items that the two of them had needed were cleaned quickly, and Sybil used the time to gaze out of the square window onto the now dark street, only a handful of people passing by on their way home from work, the neighbour's children playing in the entranceway of their house, feeding a stray cat.

 

When she was finished, she made her way to their bedroom, kneading her fingers to dry off the last drops of water.

 

Tom, wearing his pyjamas already, was sitting upright in bed, a notebook on his lap and twirling a pen between his fingers. It was his own way of getting his mind clear enough to find sleep. Sybil found it enough to free herself of her uniform and corset, to let her hair down and enjoy the light feel of her nightgown around her bare skin to relax, whereas Tom needed to pin down all last thoughts and ideas before the light went off.

 

“Did you talk to Caitlin? She never gave me an answer about when she and Sean have time to come over for dinner,” Sybil asked as she began to undo the hooks down her back, holding together her uniform.

 

“I haven't spoken to her all week, but the last time I did, she said probably not until October. Maera is still not rid of that cold, and Caitlin doesn't want to make things worse.”

 

“Have they still not taken her to a doctor? It has been going on for weeks now,” Sybil said as she stepped out of her uniform, hanging it up against the door of their wardrobe.

 

“Sean still hasn't found a job,” Tom answered with a heavy sigh, putting down the notebook and swinging his legs out of bed.

 

His cousin Sean was a constant topic between him and Sybil. Sean's wife Caitlin had been more than welcoming to Sybil, and the two had quickly become quite close. Sean, who had been out of work since before Tom brought Sybil to Ireland back in April, had not been all that keen on the new addition to the family. However, Tom had always been like a big brother to him, and Sean did well in not speaking ill of his favourite cousin's wife.

 

“Maybe I should have a look at Maera,” Sybil suggested, sitting down at her dressing table to peel off her stockings, “I'm not a doctor, but it could do no harm, I suppose.”

 

Tom nodded, pushing himself of their bed to take the stockings from Sybil, putting them on the stool by the window. He cast a last glance outside, the street empty, raindrops still drumming against the window.

 

Minutes passed in comfortable silence, and when Tom drew the curtain shut and turned back to his wife, Sybil had just pulled the last clip out of her hair. Tom smiled as her long, dark hair cascaded down her back and over her shoulders, such a contrast to her milky skin and the ivory of her nightdress.

 

“Let me,” he said quietly as Sybil reached for her hairbrush. Tom took it, her fingertips only barely brushing his as she sunk comfortably back into the chair.

 

He gently kissed the top of her head as he stepped behind her, sinking his fingers into the thick waves of her hair. Sybil sighed almost inaudibly as he began to carefully run the brush through her hair, untangling whatever the pins had tied together, feeling the silky texture smoothly on his skin.

 

Sybil's own fingers unconsciously started running over the ring on her finger, feeling the ridge where her own skin ended and the ring announced something new, something strong, something good.

 

“I'm glad you can not wear your hair down like this all the time, I have to admit,” Tom whispered into her ear, and Sybil shivered as his damp breath fanned down the side of her neck.

 

“Why is that?” she asked huskily, suddenly feeling a lot warmer than before.

 

“I like being the only one to see you like this. It's... special,” he ended, setting down the hair brush and kissing Sybil's cheek before handing her the pale green ribbon she had already placed on the dressing table.

 

Sybil smiled as she took the ribbon from his hand, and watched his back as he went back to bed, slipping under the cover. This time, his notebook remained on the bedside table.

 

Running her fingers through her hair, Sybil put the ribbon back down, slowly raising from the chair. Tom's eyes followed her movement, and she could see his forehead wrinkling in thought as she walk towards their bed.

 

“Blow out the candle, will you?” she said quietly, nodding towards the candle burning on Tom's bedside table. He did as told, and when he turned back to his wife, the flicker of the flame on her own bedside table illuminated her. Through the thin fabric of her nightdress, he could clearly see the outline of her legs, hips and waist, and she smiled at him when their eyes met.

 

“You forgot your ribbon,” Tom said as Sybil slipped beneath the cover next to him, propping up her cushions.

 

“I suppose I have,” she answered with a husky whisper, reaching out to rest her hand against his cheek.

 

“I thought you were tired,” Tom murmured as Sybil scooted closer to him, pressing her body fully into his side.

 

“Not quite that tired,” she whispered, drowning his next words by pressing her lips against his softly.

 

Tom groaned quietly, and Sybil felt rather than heard it as he deepened the kiss, one hand cupping her cheek, the other wrapping around her waist to pull her on top of him.

 

Sighing against his parted lips, Sybil buried her own hand in the soft hair at the back of Tom's head, gently running her fingers up and down his scalp, as his own hand began to roam across her back.

 

Parting their lips with a heavy heart, Tom began to brush his lips down Sybil's jaw, and across the sensitive skin of her neck. She sighed and squirmed in his arms, eager to be closer, to feel more, to touch more.

 

As he nudged the tip of his nose against the soft skin behind her ear, Sybil pushed herself closer to him, her right leg slipping past his hip. Tom groaned as she pushed herself against him eagerly, digging her fingertips into his shoulder now.

 

“Sybil,” he murmured against her soft skin, and she responded with a soft moan as he pushed his hips up to meet her own.

 

Hands began to roam more freely, with much more urgency, and Sybil shivered as the bare skin of her legs came into contact with the rough material of Tom's pyjamas, his hands bunching up her nightgown over her back.

 

“Let me,” she whispered, sitting up to pull the soft material over her head. The simple movement caused Tom to groan, and Sybil's movements faltered for a moment as she sat fully on top of him. Goose bumps covered her skin as she reached for the hem of her dress and began to slowly pull it over her head.

 

The warm flicker of the candle on her bedside table cast a serene glow across the room, and Tom reached out to trail his fingers over each inch of soft skin that Sybil revealed to him.

 

She shivered at his touch, sighing softly as she shook her head to free herself from the messy waves of hair that had been tangled with her eyelashes. Finding Tom's eyes in the dimly lit room, she saw all his love and adoration for her amplified, like a flame that had been granted air to breathe, to shine to its fullest.

 

Intertwining his fingers with hers, Tom sat up slowly, in one fluid motion that brought them so close together, not even a feather could have found a place between their bodies.

 

“I love you,” he whispered against her lips, and Sybil's eyelids fluttered shut as he began to once again trail kisses across her lips and down her jaw.

 

Gently unlacing her fingers from his, Sybil pressed her palm against Tom's stomach, feeling him squirm beneath her touch as she began to push her hand up, taking the warm fabric of his pyjamas with her.

 

Tom leaned back long enough to capture Sybil's lips in one short, searing kiss, before his hands met hers and he pulled his pyjamas over his head, Sybil's hands remaining still on his bare chest. The warmth that flooded through her was nothing like the superficial heat that radiated from a fire. It fulfilled her until her breathing became ragged and she wrapped her hands around Tom's neck to pull him even closer, their lips meeting hungrily.

 

Tom's hands trailed up Sybil's soft stomach, and he felt her shiver as his hands cupped her breasts gently. Most of the time, he could not believe how incredibly soft she was, how flawless and smooth her skin felt, how he was the one to touch it, to hear those breathy moans as he wrapped her up in his arms and gently laid her down on her back.

 

“I love you,” she whispered breathlessly as he carefully rested her head on his cushion, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. To hear her say it, after all these years of waiting, made Tom's heart swell with so much love for her, with so much pride and joy, that he could barely contain it, was helpless about how to channel it, how to make her understand what she meant to him.

 

His hands began a new journey across her collarbone and over her chest, fingertips trailing around her breast, and down her stomach as Sybil sighed softly, reaching out for him. Tom reached out his hands, lacing his fingers with her as his lips replaced his fingers on her skin, leaving feather-light kisses along her stomach and breasts, feeling her skin warming up at his touch.

 

“Tom,” Sybil moaned as he kissed a line across her abdomen, her hips raising and her hands pulling him back up towards her.

 

He groaned as their lips met, her eager hands wrapping around his back, toying with the waistband of his trousers.

 

“Take them off,” she murmured against his lips, and Tom barely found the strength to pull away from her long enough to push his trousers down, not minding where they ended up as he dropped them behind him. Sybil sat up long enough to reach out for his shoulders and pull him back down with her.

 

The feeling of her bare skin pressed against his had his mind reeling, and Sybil panted as she wrapped her legs around his thighs, kissing the point where his shoulder met his neck.

 

“Sybil,” he groaned again, fumbling blindly for her hands. When he found them, Sybil grasped his fingers almost violently, pushing her hips closer, breathing heavily against his neck.

 

As Tom sank into her, Sybil moaned softly, squeezing his fingers. His eyes fell shut, and he rested his forehead against Sybil's shoulder, trying to calm himself.

 

Sybil, however, had different ideas, and pushed herself against him impatiently, circling her hips as he tried to remain calm. He remembered the night they got married, how shy and clumsy they had been, but how eager at the same time.

 

He began to move slowly, cherishing every sigh and moan, kissing Sybil's neck softly.

 

Everything became a blur as Sybil began to move with him, to whisper his name, to grasp his hands tighter, to push against him more urgently. When her moans became louder, and her right hand let go of his to grasp his back, he met her lips in one last searing kiss, pushing himself against he so tightly that he could feel her heart beating violently in her chest, her legs and arms holding on to him so tightly it almost hurt.

 

For a moment, everything seemed to stop but their ragged breathing, their lips mere inches apart. When Tom opened his eyes again, Sybil was smiling up at him softly, her skin glowing, cheeks tinted red.

 

Her hand dropped from his back to rest against his cheek, and he smiled back down at her, spent and tired, leaning down to brush his lips against hers almost chastely.

 

Carefully, he pushed himself of her, laying down next to her with a breathless sigh.

 

She turned to him almost immediately, still glowing, chest heaving with each breath, that serene smile etched onto her full lips.

 

Tom reached out to brush away a strand of hair sticking to her temple, and Sybil sighed, her eyes closing.

 

“The candle,” Tom whispered, retreating his hand as Sybil groaned and turned to blow out the last source of light.

 

For a few seconds, everything was pitch black and lost in the dark, but then their eyes began to adjust, and the scarce light from the night sky began to flood through the thin curtains.

 

Tom reached out to pull the cover over Sybil's body, his fingers coming to rest at her waist as she scooted closer to him, craving his warmth.

 

“Good night,” Sybil murmured as she rested her head on Tom's chest, her arms draped loosely over his stomach.

 

“Good night,” he responded, kissing the top of her head one more time before pulling the cover up further, sheltering them both from the cold.

 

He listened to the heavy drumming of the rain and Sybil's steady breathing for a little while longer, before his eyelids became heavy, and everything morphed into darkness and quiet.


	2. melancholy

__

_All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is part of ourselves. We must die to one life before we can enter another._

Anatole France

 

The rainy weather did not cease in the slightest, and when they stood on his mother's doorstep the next Friday, Tom held the umbrella over Sybil's head while she fumbled with the basket in her hands, raindrops running down his neck, seeping into the fabric of his jacket.

 

Groaning impatiently, he knocked his fists against the door a second time, cursing under his breath as he felt his feet grow colder and colder the longer he stood in this murky puddle.

 

“Don't let your mother hear you,” Sybil said with a grin as she turned to him, her face half-hidden beneath her hat. Before Tom had a chance to defend himself, the blue front door finally opened, and his mother's smiling face greeted them.

 

“There you are,” she said brightly, taking a step back into the hallway to make room for Sybil and Tom to rush in, “I thought you might have drowned on the way.”

 

Tom shook the umbrella out of the door once, before he realized there was no point. The rain was pouring so heavily now, he could barely make out the shape of the house across the street any more. Instead, he simply dumped the umbrella in the corner next to the stairs, shutting the door.

 

“How are you doing, dear?” Tom's mother asked as she gave Sybil a short hug, her eyes roaming up and down Tom's body as she usually did. When she smiled back at her daughter-in-law, Tom knew that whatever his mother was always looking for had not been found. He was approved of. For tonight, anyway. She always did that, looking him up and down, eyeing him carefully, to see if anything had changed, if he needed more to eat, if he had not slept well enough. 

 

Sybil took of her dark blue hat, brushing a few drops of rain from her forehead as she followed Mrs Branson up the stairs towards her flat.

 

“I'm very well, thank you,” she said, and Tom still detected that shyness, that small hint of intimidation in her voice. He knew it must not have been easy for her to meet his mother after that rather harsh-tongued letter she had sent as a response to their engagement, calling both of them foolish. But his mother had never been a heartless woman, rough and direct and maybe a little unfeeling from time to time, but she had a big heart, and the lovely young girl that made her oldest son so happy never stood a chance of falling onto her wrong side.

 

Sybil tried her hardest to win over her mother-in-law, to not just be Tom's English wife who did not know what she was getting herself into, and Tom knew his mother, although she would never openly admit it, enjoyed all this very much.

 

“I suppose you don't care how I am,” he called up the stairs as he followed his wife and mother, burying his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

 

“Oh, Tom, you know I know you are doing more than fine,” his mother said nonchalantly, gently steering Sybil through the open door of her flat. 

 

He remembered the day he had first brought Sybil here, still wobbly from the long journey, tired, and with her eyes swollen from tears she had been to proud to shed. His mother's one room flat was probably the size of Sybil's bedroom back at Downton, and Tom had seen the deep intake of breath she had taken that day.

 

For those first few moments, he had been afraid she would grab her back and run back down to the ferry, buy the first ticket home and never look back, that she only now realized what it meant to spend her life with him, that, no matter how hard he worked, he could never give her what her family could.

 

But then she had turned to him and smiled, smiled so genuinely and lovingly that he had almost kissed her then and there, before even properly introducing her to his doubt-stricken mother.

 

By now, the small kitchen they stepped into had become a second home to Sybil, and she placed the basket on the small counter, before discarding her coat, gloves and hat by the door.

 

Tom simply shrugged out of his soaked coat and hung it up at the rusty hook by the door. His hat had blown of his head ten minutes after they had left their flat, and fallen straight into one of the deepest puddles the entire street had to offer, and Tom now placed it by the cackling fire in the corner.

 

“What's in there, love?” his mother asked Sybil with a nod towards the basket, while she peeled what seemed like the last potato, wiping her hands on her apron.

 

“Oh, just a small cake,” Sybil answered, “Since I didn't have time to bring anything for dinner tonight, I thought that's the least I could do.”

 

“You shouldn't have,” Tom's mother said with a friendly smile, and Tom grinned as he recalled Sybil's burning red face as she had made the cake yesterday evening after they had finished dinner. She had, in fact, sent him to bed, telling him not to wait up for her, but he had not been able to help himself, and had peeked into the kitchen more than once.

 

When she eventually slid under the cover beside him, he had already been half asleep, and the scent of flour had filled his nostrils, Sybil's now warm fingers spreading over his chest.

 

“How is work at the hospital?” Mrs Branson asked as Sybil joined her at the counter to help her prepare dinner, “Tom tells me one of the other nurses is making things difficult for you?”

 

Sybil turned her head just slightly enough for her mother-in-law not to notice, and Tom met her glance apologetically. He knew she felt as if her troubles with Nurse Hayes only proved whatever concern his mother might have about her not being the right woman for her son.

 

“Oh, that is quite alright. I know it is nothing particularly personal, and we manage to work alongside each other. That is all I can ask for, I suppose.”

 

Tom's mother nodded. “You must not let her wear you down for something that was not you fault.”

 

Tom began to stir up the slowly dying flames, and all three of them fell into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, while the fire crackled in the small kitchen.

 

-

 

“You make sure Connelly doesn't take advantage of you, Tom,” Mrs Branson said sternly as she set down her glass, eyes fixed on her son, “He can't just let you do all the extra work for no more money.”

 

Tom nodded, mouth still full to the brim with potato.

 

“I know he is looking for a replacement already, some chaps were there for interviews the other day. But Kieran was good, and I think Connelly is trying to pursue him to stay,” he explained a second later, dreading to have brought up the subject at all.

 

“But he's already got the job and a flat, so that's not going to happen,” his mother added quickly, making her point clear.

 

Next to him, Sybil reached out for the salt, her arms brushing his. Their eyes met for a fleeting second, and they smiled at each other for a brief moment.

 

“And how is your family, Sybil?” Tom's mother asked casually, and Tom looked up at her quickly, a stern look in his eyes. But it was in vain, for his mother was already smiling gently at Sybil. 

 

He knew she meant no harm, that she was genuinely interested. But when he glanced to his side, he found exactly what he had expected. That barely noticeable quiver of Sybil's lips, the way she sat up a little straighter, and the way the softness in her eyes became a little harder.

 

She might be strong, and willing, and the way she spoke and laughed and smiled and touched told him she was truly happy – here, with him, as his wife, as part of his family. But none of that could permanently soothe the scar that her family's rejection had left behind. When only her sisters had agreed to attend their wedding, he had seen her tears spill over silently, had held her, stroked her hair, but not uttered a word.

 

Mary and Edith had been unexpectedly supporting, and Tom had felt both pride and gratefulness at the fact that they could clearly see that Sybil had made her point clear, that this was truly what she wanted. However, her parents' absence at her own wedding, as expected as it had been, was nothing simply be brushed over and forgotten.

 

There were letters, and from what she shared, her mother had become softer, willing to accept the inevitable. Sybil rarely ever spoke of her father, and Tom had a feeling that the letters did, neither.

 

“They are all well, from what I read,” Sybil said relatively quietly, and Tom met his mother's eyes shortly, shaking his head in a barely noticeable movement.

 

“Well, that's wonderful, then,” his mother ended her short enquiry, holding her son's gaze, her forehead wrinkling in thought.

 

“How is Shinead doing? I haven't talked to her in over a week,” Tom asked casually, trying to steer the conversation into more shallow waters. He could almost feel Sybil relaxing by his side, and he took the salt from her, letting his fingers linger against hers briefly, long enough to make it clear to her that he _knew_ , that he was here with her.

 

“I went over there yesterday, and I'd say she's going to have the baby any day now. I hope so for her, or Cillian will drive her into insanity one of these days.”

 

Tom chuckled at the mention of his two-year-old nephew, as wild as his father Aengus, and as insidiously clever as his sister. 

 

“I think we'll visit them once the initial rush is over,” Tom suggested, looking at Sybil for confirmation, and she nodded.

 

“I'd say so, too,” she agreed, “I'm sure they'll want some peace.”

 

The conversation turned towards Tom's cousin Sean then, and his mother made it very clear how fed up she was with her nephew, with her only brother's son, who, in her opinion, made no effort to find a new job, or to look after his family.

 

Tom focussed on finishing his dinner while his mother spoke in a fury. He did not approve of the situation Sean was in, and neither did he appreciate the way his cousin clearly thought of Sybil. But the two of them had spent more time together as children than Tom had with his own brother, and he always felt much more protective of Sean than of his brother. 

 

Whatever was going wrong in Sean's life, Tom felt uncomfortable to hear his mother talk so ill of him. He knew she loved him dearly, but this was what his mother did, tell the truth about what she thought, no matter how piercing that truth might be.

 

“I just wish they'd take that little girl to a doctor,” he heard his mother say with a softer voice now. He turned to Sybil, but she was plainly looking ahead, fingers curled around her cup.

 

Tom knew it was the echo of his mother's earlier question that troubled Sybil, and he wished dearly that it was only a brief period of sadness.

 

“I said to Tom the other day that I might have a look at Maera,” Sybil said so suddenly that Tom blinked in confusion. She had seemed to utterly absent just a second ago, “We invited them for dinner. Caitlin said they'd come in early October if things aren't worse by then.”

 

He could still hear from the tone of her voice that her thoughts were wandering somewhere else, but her words were determined nonetheless.

 

“That's a very good idea, Sybil,” Tom's mother agreed, reaching out for their plates to form a pile, “The little girl has been sick ever since she was born if you ask me. And they never had her looked at properly.”

 

“I'm not a doctor, but I think I could at least tell if it is really serious,” Sybil said, looking at Tom who nodded in confirmation, “Oh, let me help you with that.”

 

Sybil rose from her chair to help her mother-in-law clear the table, setting everything down by the sink. Tom took the heavy pot, placing it on the last bit of free space on the counter, while his mother already began to run the water over the plates.

 

“You two should be going soon, it's getting late,” Mrs Branson said, emphasizing her words with a curt nod out of the window. Everything was tinted in darkness, and the rain was still falling heavily, although it seemed to have lost some of its earlier force.

 

“Let us just help you clean this up,” Sybil insisted, grabbing one of the kitchen towels from the shelf.

 

With the three of them working in unison, it did not take long to have the kitchen cleaned up, and before long, Tom helped Sybil back into her coat, stuffing his still wet hat into his pocket.

 

“I'm sure we'll see each other during the next few days,” Tom said to his mother as she accompanied them down the stairs towards the front door, “Let me know if you hear anything from Shinead.”

 

His mother nodded, wrapping her shawl tighter around her, now that they had left the warmth of the kitchen.

 

“Thank you for tonight,” Sybil said with a smile as they reached the front door, and Mrs Branson shook her head nonchalantly, giving Sybil another short hug.

 

“It was my pleasure,” she said happily, before turning to her son, “Tom? Could I talk to you for just a second?”

 

Tom looked at his mother in confusion, and he saw the same expression in Sybil's eyes as their glances met.

 

“Alright,” he said, shrugging his shoulders at Sybil. She turned towards the front door in discretion, picking up the umbrella and opening it just a little bit to see if it had dried.

 

Tom followed his mother a few steps back into the hallway, just far enough for a few hushed words.

 

“What's all this about?” he asked, “You can say anything you have to say to me in front of Sybil, you know that.”

 

“Listen to me,” she said, paying no attention to his words, “Don't let her become estranged from her family entirely, Tom. She might be stubborn now, but the day will come when she won't thank you for it.”

 

Somehow he had known his mother would not simply drop the subject, and he was suddenly grateful that she had chosen to keep Sybil out of this. He took her words to heart, and he knew, deep down, that they were true.

 

“She's doing it herself, you know,” he murmured, “She waits weeks at a time to answer their letters, and she talks herself into not caring more than is good.”

 

“Help her out, Tom. However you can.”

 

His mother patted his shoulder and granted him a reassuring smile, before steering him back to the door.

 

With a last few words goodbye, and a promise for a bigger family dinner after Shinead's baby was born, Sybil and Tom made their way back out onto the dark street, huddled close together under the umbrella.

 

“What was that all about?” she asked when they turned around the comer of the street, feet splashing against puddles.

 

“Nothing to worry about, darling,” Tom said quietly, smiling down at Sybil gently, “Not for now, anyway.”

 

.:.

 

“Nurse Branson, you are needed over here!”

 

Sybil drew the curtains around the patient's bed shut, quickly looking around to find the source of the voice, Doctor Moran, at the other end of the long room, lifting a young boy into one of the empty beds. Nurse Daly assisted him, gently placing the boy's feet on the bed.

 

The door to the large hallway was still open, and the bright, artificial light streaming in felt like razors against Sybil's eyelids.

 

Never before had she been plagued by headaches, not very often at least. But now that September was about to end and the rain had finally eased up a little, she found herself near tears almost every day, her head throbbing agonizingly. The only time she remembered her head torturing her like this was long years ago, the night after that fateful count in Ripon, when she had hit her head, the night she had threatened her father to run away if he made Tom pay the prize for her foolishness. 

 

At first, she had not told Tom about the searing headaches, mostly because she brushed them off as something not worth mentioning, as an inconvenience, and also not to worry him. But when he had found her completely immobile on their bed on Saturday afternoon, curtains shut on the first sunny day in weeks, hands clasped over her eyes, there had been no room to deny it.

 

As she had expected, he had urged her to see one of the doctors at the hospital, to make sure it was nothing serious. Sybil had refused. The last thing she wanted was bother her colleagues with a mere headache, to make herself look vulnerable and unreliable. Instead, she had assured Tom that it would get better soon, she was sure of it.

 

He had held her that night, rubbing his thumbs in circles over her temple.

 

“Nurse Branson!”

 

Doctor Moran's deep, roaring voice pulled Sybil out of her pain-induced thoughts, and she quickly rushed over to him. Nurse Daly stepped aside, making room for Sybil.

 

The boy, not any older than ten, had a deep, gushing cut across his right cheek and down his neck, and Doctor Moran was busy peeling off the sporadic bandages.

 

“What happened to him?” Sybil asked as she reached for the tray to hold the blood-soaked bandages.

 

“Fell out of a tree.”

 

Sybil eyed the boy, fair-skinned, red hair. It was morbidly funny in a certain way. After everything she had seen in her early days as a nurse – men destroyed by gas blindness, burned beyond recognition, faces torn apart, limbs ripped from their bodies, their blood coating her hands and uniform, watching them die in front of her – it were cases like these that Sybil was least prepared for. The young, innocent children, who should be cheerful and healthy, not strapped to a cold bed, covered in blood and bruises.

 

“Any broken bones?” Sybil asked, tearing her eyes away from the boy's face.

 

Doctor Moran peeled off the last bandage, dropping it onto the tray Sybil was still holding out for him.

 

“No,” he answered, “Lucky chap. But I want to have a closer look at that later.”

 

He pointed to the boy's arms, sleeve rolled up to expose an extensive, almost black bruise.

 

“Fetch some more bandages, warm water and we'll need plenty of cloths.”

 

Sybil nodded, regretting it immediately when the throbbing pain inside her head cut through her eyeballs like a razor. Setting down the tray, she rushed off to the door, stepping into the brightly lit hallway. She kept her eyes focused on the dark wooden floor, but each step she took was answered with a sharp pain flashing through her head.

 

Pulling open one of the many drawers, Sybil grabbed a few rolled up bandages, pulled a fresh cloth out of another drawer, and quickly made her way back towards the boy.

 

Doctor Moran was still carefully inspecting the wound, and Sybil placed the bandages and the cloth onto the table next to the bed before rushing off again to bring the bowl of warm water.

 

No sooner had she set the water down when Doctor Sheehan called her over to assist while he re-set a broken arm, and the young man's hands grabbed her forearms so tightly, that Sybil was momentarily distracted from the throbbing behind her temples.

 

Her arm still ached as she stripped bed after bed of used sheets, washed trays and walked from the cellar back to the third floor four times to re-stock the bandages. There would be bruises on her arm, she was sure, but at least her headache had eased a little, merely a constant ache than periodical flashes of agonizing pain.

 

It was still a long time before her short lunch break, when Sybil was called to one of the beds by Doctor Moran, and the balls of her feet were protesting already as she rushed over.

 

Nurse Hayes was cutting off the man's blood-soaked sleeve, while the doctor took the man's pulse.

 

“He was shot,” he explained with typical short words, “Bullet went through. Nurse Branson, you will clean the wound.”

 

Sybil nodded and had already taken a few steps back when she heard Nurse Hayes.

 

“Do you really think Nurse Branson should be in lone charge of this, Doctor?” her words were quick and sleek as always, a façade of professionalism when in truth, she was being everything but professional, “She has not even worked here for three months.”

 

Sybil turned back in time to see Doctor Moran finish his examination.

 

“Nurse Branson has worked as a nurse as long as you, I see no reason to not put her in charge. Nurse Hayes, if you would kindly take a look at the little boy in bed three, he seems to be waking up.”

 

Sybil glanced over towards the young boy from earlier, face and neck covered in bandages, beginning to stir in his bed. Nurse Hayes brushed past her without another word, but Sybil saw the way she carried her shoulders straighter than usual, taking harsh steps, hands brushing over her apron.

 

She sighed, both trying to ignore the woman's hatred for her, and feeling saddened by it. Pressing her fingers against her still aching temple, she looked more closely at the man on the bed. Tall and lean, with light brown hair.

 

It were the gunshot wounds she dreaded most these days.

 

.:.

 

The harsh early October winds quickened Sybil's steps as her heels clicked along the pavement. She kept her head faced down, her cheeks nonetheless flushed from the cold. 

 

It had been a better day than many over the last few weeks, the usually constant headaches almost nothing but a faint echo, and the first day without Nurse Haynes – until the end of the next week, at least.

 

In a way, Sybil felt terrible for being grateful for the air to breathe that Nurse Hayes' absence was giving her. She was gone for the week to arrange her mother's funeral down South, and Sybil felt genuine sadness for the woman's death. Still, she could not deny the relief of not having to face another day of Nurse Hayes' unspoken insults and demeaning side-glances. 

 

A sudden loud groan broke through the howling of the wind, the sound of someone clearly struggling, and Sybil made out the source of the noise quickly. A young man was being dragged out of a doorway by two British soldiers, kicking his legs, roaring into the early autumn darkness with all his might.

 

This was not the first time Sybil had witnessed this, and she knew it was better to simply walk on. She did, hurrying her steps, the corner of her street already in sight. Even though she knew this was the right thing for her to do, the safe option, she could never help but be reminded of how terribly wrong everything was, how terribly, _terribly_ wrong.

 

It made her angry, this physical reminder of the twisted system she understood so much better now that she lived within it. She remembered that sunny day years ago, when Tom had snapped, had told her about his dead cousin – Brian, she now knew – and how angry he had become at the fact that she simply could not _know_ what was happening here.

 

She understood it now, and she understood why Tom had been so insistent on getting a flat as close to the hospital that she had gotten a position at as possible, to shorten her way back home to a minimum, to keep her away from narrow alleyways and courtyards.

 

Still, on days like these, days when she got so utterly close to it all, when she witnessed it first hand, Sybil could not help but feel almost physically sick with worry about Tom.

 

He could so easily be the man she just saw being dragged away. Where was he now? That was the question constantly burning in her mind, and she quickened her pace even more as she turned the corner, desperate to get home.

 

.:.

 

“There's no need to hurry, Sybil. They're late, they might as well wait for dinner once they're here,” Tom said with a grin as Sybil loaded plates and glasses onto a tray.

 

“You should be glad your mother didn't hear that, Tom,” Sybil responded with an equally wide grin, but nonetheless a worried glance at the clock.

 

“Oh, she'd have a thing or two to say to Sean about- Sybil?”

 

She had curled her fingers tightly around the edge of the table as another flash of pain throbbed behind her temples, hoping it would pass Tom's attention.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice thick with worry, dropping the spoon he was holding to step to Sybil's side.

 

“I'm fine,” she answered truthfully, closing her eyes, leaning into Tom as he rested his warm palm gently against her back.

 

“We both know that's not true, Sybil,” he said rather sternly, and Sybil knew he was reaching his limit of believing her reassurances. 

 

“But I am getting better, truly.”

 

It was true. Over the last few days, she had felt more of a dizziness than actual pain, and if there still was some, it was short and fleeting, similar to what had happened a minute ago.

 

“You really should see a doctor. I don't want to drive you mad with worry, Sybil, I really don't,” Tom said calmly, taking her hand and gently steering her into one of the chairs, “But I _am_ worried. I know it can be nothing, maybe it's all the change and the adjustment. Still, it _might_ be something, and I'd rather know.”

 

Nodding, Sybil interlaced her fingers with his, taking a deep breath.

 

“Maybe you're right. But it truly is getting better, so I'd rather wait just a week longer before alarming everyone.”

 

Tom sighed, knowing better than to argue with Sybil on certain matters.

 

“Promise me to tell me when it gets worse,” he murmured as he leaned in to softly kiss Sybil's forehead.

 

“Promise,” she whispered, cherishing the moment alone as she caught Tom's lips in a quick kiss, before their guests would arrive. His fingertips rested against her cheek, barely brushing her hair, and Sybil sighed.

 

In the last few weeks since her health had worn her out, moments like these had become rare. Joyful moments of intimacy, a kiss filled with love, a soft touch. It had been all soothing and nursing lately, nothing of the eagerness and fire that used to fill every second they spent together.

 

She loved Tom even more for giving her air to breathe, for not pushing her or asking from her what she was not willing to give, for she knew he could – if he wanted to. She was too tired, too exhausted, and she wanted Tom to hold her close at night. However, all her desire seemed to stop there, at the chaste embraces and interlaced hands.

 

“I'd say we better get this ready,” Tom murmured against her lips, his voice husky, clearly longing to lean in again, if just for one more kiss, “Before my mother hears we're not prepared.”

 

Sybil laughed lightly, and she could see the way Tom's eyes lit up at the sound, clear blue like the sky had been this morning, fresh and void of all sadness and worry.

 

Their moment was interrupted by a knock on the door to their flat, and Tom groaned quietly.

 

“About time,” he muttered as he stepped out of the kitchen, Sybil close behind him. The second Tom opened the door, two young children burst into the room, shaking themselves with loud, throaty noises, splashing water over the squeaky wooden floor.

 

“Maera! Kearney!” Caitlin's stern voice echoed through the small room, and both children came to a reluctant hold, “Sorry about that.”

 

Sybil waved her hand before returning Caitlin's hug. Sean's wife was only a few years older than Sybil, small, with blonde hair and piercing green eyes. The warm, welcoming smile on her pale face had been the first thing Sybil had noticed when they first met, right after the surprisingly strong sound of her voice.

 

“You're late,” Tom said to Sean with a grin, clapping his cousin on the shoulder. Sean looked surprisingly like Tom, although Tom's mother always claimed Tom got his looks from his late father. Tall, broad shoulders, ashen hair and blue eyes. Something about Sean looked younger than Tom, though, and Sybil could not quite put her finger on what exactly it was.

 

“Bloody wind,” Sean mumbled, earning a stern glance from his wife. 

 

He rolled his eyes at Tom, before he saw Sybil standing next to his wife.

 

“Sybil,” he said curtly, granting her an obviously very forced smile. Sybil responded with a kinder, more welcoming smile, knowing she could not expect everyone in Tom's family to be as welcoming towards her as Caitlin had been.

 

“Dinner is almost ready, why don't you take a seat?” she said kindly, eager and excited to be in charge, to be the one to welcome guests, to cook and serve and be hospitable to them. Early on, it had frightened her, to carry the outcome of an evening on her shoulders, but quickly, very quickly, she had realized that this was different from what she was used to. That everyone here wanted nothing more than to feel warm and welcome. She could give them that.

 

“Why don't you let me finish in the kitchen, and you can have a look at Maera?” Tom asked Sybil, loud enough for Caitlin to hear, while she was busy hanging up coats and hats.

 

“Thank you,” Sybil replied, kissing Tom quickly on the cheek, before turning to Caitlin. Maera, a small, thin girl with her father's ashen hair, but her mother's green eyes, stood by her mother's leg, fidgeting with the hem of Caitlin's skirt, a smile on her dry lips.

 

“Let's sit on the sofa, it's nice and warm there,” Sybil suggested, leading Caitlin and her daughter to the corner of the room while Sean and Kearney, Maera's older brother, followed Tom into the kitchen.

 

“Thank you so much for having a look at her,” Caitlin said just quietly enough for her daughter not to hear as she skipped towards the sofa.

 

“It's no problem, at all,” Sybil reassured Caitlin, gently placing her hand on her shoulder, “But I really do think you should see a doctor as soon as you possibly can. There won't be much that I can do, and Tom's mother mentioned she's never been very healthy.”

 

Caitlin nodded as they sat down, and her gaze fell into her lap.

 

“Maera, would you like to sit here between us?” Sybil asked the young girl as she bounced on the ball of her feet by the fire, humming along to a tune only she could hear.

 

-

 

Sybil had been right in her assumption that there was not much she could do to help Maera. The little girl was obviously in very bad shape, and Sybil wished dearly to help more properly. But all she could do was urge Caitlin to take her daughter to a doctor, even offering to help out with the cost if necessary.

 

Caitlin had declined, but promised to take Maera to a doctor by the end of the month. The shimmering in her green eyes had put a dampener on Sybil's mood, and she spent most of dinner eyeing Caitlin's helpless fatigue.

 

Tom was emerged deeply in a conversation with Sean, but Sybil barely caught a word of it as she wondered if Sean would ever warm up to her even remotely as much as his wife had. She did not expect it, and she was not angry at him. But it made her feel somewhat out of place in her own home, to be rejected by him.

 

_He's always been very vocal on his dislike for your people_ , Tom had explained shortly after they had first met Sean and Caitlin, _He'll get over it. I just think he's disappointed in me, that's all. Marrying an English woman._

 

Now, months later, Sybil wondered how sure Tom was about his own words. Even more, she wondered what Sean, or anyone in Tom's family who had welcomed her easily, or at least made an effort to make her believe so, would think, if only they knew how much she represented what each and every one of them despised.

 

They had decided, back at Downton, after their failed attempt at eloping, while making plans for a shared future, that they would keep Sybil's background a secret. Tom's mother was the only person who knew that when Sybil married her son, she gave up her position in the English aristocracy, that the dowry her father was willing to give, was, as gracious as it had been to everyone in Tom's family, only a fragment of what she might have been given once. That the foreign, English woman Tom had brought home with him was, in fact, a lady.

 

Her life here was dangerous enough as it was, and Sybil understood that her former social position did not make it any safer.

 

As their guests got ready to leave, Sybil gently patted Maera's head, hoping that the little advice she had been able to give would at least do some good.

 

Tom wrapped his arm around her waist, and she gratefully leaned into his side, only now realizing how tired and exhausted she was, her head once again starting to ache faintly.

 

They said their goodbyes, and just as Sybil was about to shut the door, Sean turned back around.

 

“Thank you, Sybil. For taking a look at Maera.”

 

Sybil smiled, and she could feel Tom's fingers gently squeezing her side.

 

“You're very welcome,” she said warmly, nodding as Sean turned to follow his wife and children down the stairs.

 

“Did you tell him to say that?” she murmured as they shut the door, still hearing Kearney quirky laughter downstairs.

 

Tom shook his head, dropping a feather-light kiss on Sybil's forehead.


	3. the smell of smoke

  


_We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered._

**Tom Stoppard**

 

“I do wish I could have come along,” Sybil murmured, her eyes shut tightly as she lay on her side, hands folded beneath her cheek. She ran the aching soles of her bare feet along the mattress underneath the duvet, sighing softly at the relieving coolness.

 

“We'll find some time next week, then we can both visit,” Tom, whose fingertips were pressing gentle circles into Sybil's temple, reassured her.

 

Two days before, Shinead, the older of Tom's two younger sisters, had given birth to her second child. While Tom had followed his brother-in-law's proud invitation to come and visit the new baby girl, Nora, Sybil had been at work, unable to find even a spare minute to walk the short distance to her sister-in-law's house. 

 

Her disappointment had been more than evident all day long. At work, her mind had been terribly occupied, wishing she could take the afternoon off, just this once, and Tom had asked her more than once during dinner if she was feeling alright. She was indeed feeling better, apart from the dull headache and invisible weights that seemed to pull her eyelids shut, but she could not hide the fact that she was simply sad about missing out such an important family event. Welcoming a newborn child into the family.

 

It was new to Sybil. _She_ had always been the youngest. The youngest daughter, the youngest cousin, there had never been younger children around her. The baby had always been her. To now be part of a large family where children were constantly around, cherished and born not as heirs but as a new link for the future, was a change she enjoyed and was eager to discover.

 

To not be present today had felt like a step backwards, as if she willingly put a bit more of the distance between herself and Tom's family that she had so meticulously attempted to reduce in the past months since her arrival.

 

“I know you're disappointed. But Shinead wasn't angry, trust me. She was excited when I told her we'd come next week.”

 

Sybil nodded, sighing as Tom's fingers moved from her temple through the thick curls of her hair, gently rubbing up and down her scalp. She sank deeper into the cushion, edging a little closer to Tom. The warmth of his body behind hers was comforting, much more than any fire could ever be.

 

“And with that horrible woman back, you won't have to cover her shift any more, so you'll have more time,” he added, pressing his lips against Sybil's temple, lingering there. His breath was damp against her skin, his lips just barely hovering there, not moving away, not moving closer.

 

“That is true,” she murmured sleepily. It had been Nurse Hayes' first day back at the hospital, and Sybil would be lying if she pretended not to have dreaded this day. Surprisingly, the day had gone rather well. It made her sad to think that the death of her mother had been necessary to soften her colleague, but she was grateful that she had been mostly ignored today.

 

The last thing she wanted was to complain, to tell the head nurse about Nurse Hayes' behaviour. She understood it, somehow. Remembering the young man she had seen being dragged away only last week, she understood. The woman had lost her husband to a system that, in her eyes, Sybil represented, supported, _was_.

 

Tom's lips brought Sybil back into reality, out of her deep thoughts, and she faintly heard the patter of first raindrops against the window. Sighing as Tom's lips met her own, she turned her head to face him. The movement caused Tom's fingers to sink fully into her hair, small shivers buzzing through Sybil's nerves as his fingertips connected with the sensitive skin of her neck.

 

Sybil freed her hands to wrap them around Tom's neck, feeling the coarse stubble on his cheeks rub against the palm of her hands. She held on tightly to him, pulling him closer, needing him nearer to her.

 

Responding to the eager pull of her hands, Tom moved on top of Sybil, his free hand finding the soft curve of her waist, bunching her nightdress in his fist as he deepened the kiss.

 

As Sybil's hand began to roam across Tom's back, she gently parted her lips from his, opening her heavy eyes.

 

“Tom,” she whispered softly, cupping his cheek. He looked down at her, eyes darker than usual, but softened and warm. 

 

Sybil allowed her legs to fall open, giving Tom room to rest fully on top of her, enveloping her in his warmth. The soft sound of her voice was of such a different nature than the fiery kiss only a few seconds ago, and both of them calmed down slowly, steadying their breaths.

 

The rain was starting to become heavier, the rhythmic patter against the window becoming louder, wind howling and rustling.

 

“I'm sorry,” Sybil whispered against Tom's lips, their skin still touching feather-lightly, warm and soft, and Sybil felt her heart swell as Tom smiled softly, moving his hand from her waist to her cheek, mirroring her own hand. He leaned in closer, nudging his nose against hers. His fingertips traced her cheekbone so delicately as if he were cherishing the smoothness of a strip of silk.

 

“It's alright,” he murmured, resting his head in the crook of Sybil's neck, “I know you are tired.”

 

“Can we stay like this?”

 

Tom looked up at Sybil with a sleepy grin, reaching out to take her hand in his, nodding lightly. Sybil's eyes fell shut almost immediately as she felt their fingers interlace, her chest still fluttery, her breath still heavy, and every expanse of her skin tingling.

 

She felt herself beginning to feel better, stronger, less consumed by the dull ache inside her head. Maybe she had let all the difficulties from the hospital and all the pressure to be accepted into Tom's family fill her head to the brim. Let it literally fill up to the point that it was about to burst. 

 

Maybe _this_ was all she needed to feel better, to rest in Tom's arms, to feel his even breaths against her skin, slowly mingling with the patter of the rain until all sound began to fool her and sleep finally took over.

 

.:.

 

Placing the still wet bowl on the wooden grate next to the big, deep sink, Sybil pressed the back of her damp hand against her mouth. As she mentally told herself to breathe calmly, her eyes fell onto the stack of bowls and trays that still needed to be cleaned. All of them covered in blood or vomit, Sybil sighed, swallowing hard.

 

Usually, this did not bother her in the slightest. She had seen such savage injuries, the sight of blood or vomit was nothing extraordinary to her any more. Today, however, the mere thought of scrubbing at least another dozen bowls and trays caused her stomach to twist and turn in discomfort.

 

Edna, who had her hands deep in the cold water of the sink on the opposite wall, was still complaining about the rude woman working in the bakery across the street. Apparently, she had deliberately given Edna the wrong order this morning, resulting in an argument with the man whose order Edna had received, and in the end, Edna had arrived at the hospital last, ten minutes too late, and with a head as red as her hair.

 

“You would think they'd make an effort in employing people who actually want to sell, and want to keep the shop running,” she continued, her voice clear, echoing _so_ very slightly off the tiled walls, that Sybil barely noticed, “But instead, they place that awful woman behind the counter and expect me to still invest money there. I tell you, if they weren't the best bakery around here – by far, I can tell you – I would stay clear of there until I am old and grey.”

 

Sybil remained quiet, sensing that Edna was not yet finished with her rush of complaints. She was a lovely woman, kind, friendly, and a very gifted nurse, and they had gotten along very well from Sybil's first day on. They had spent several afternoons in each other's homes for tea, and Sybil was glad to have someone outside of Tom's family to consider somewhat of a friend. If she was being honest with herself, she was not sure if they were friends, really. But she liked the thought, and saw no need to discuss the topic with Edna. 

 

“The woman could have gotten me fired,” Edna spoke on, water splashing in the background, and Sybil closed her eyes as her insides seemed to twist and turn even more. She felt the tray she was washing slip from her fingers before she even realized she was leaning over the stack of cleaned bowls, clutching her stomach.

 

“Sybil?”

 

She could not remember the last time she had thrown up, but it must have been a long time ago, for the agonizing pressure on her ribs seemed so unfamiliar and out of this world, that Sybil felt tears gathering in her eyes.

 

“Sybil, what on Earth is the matter?” Edna asked, hurrying over, resting her hand on Sybil's shoulder.

 

Sybil pushed her soaking wet hands against her sides, trying to breathe calmly as she stood up straight again. The throbbing pain in her ribs momentarily distracted her from the humiliating embarrassment that began to flood her mind.

 

“I'm so sorry,” she said quickly, pressing her thumbs deeply into her uniform, “I'm sorry, I don't know how that happened.”

 

“Don't be silly, don't worry about this. We'll have it cleaned up in no time,” Edna reassured her, smiling her wide smile, “But are you alright? You have been looking terribly pale lately.”

 

Sybil felt sick again as she heard Edna's confirmation that her unsteady state of health lately had not gone entirely unnoticed.

 

“I don't know,” she said quietly, feeling terribly uncomfortable with her cold hands, water-stained uniform, the smell of blood in the air and the taste of vomit in her mouth, “It must have been the fish we had for dinner yesterday. It tasted odd, I should have known. I'm already feeling much better.”

 

She was so used to reassuring Tom that everything was alright by now, that the words easily slipped past her lips. It was not even a lie, it might very well have been the truth. Truly, it was the only explanation Sybil could come up with for herself.

 

“Well, you better go home straight away, in case it wasn't the fish,” Edna suggested, eyeing Sybil with concern.

 

“Can we not pretend it never happened? I'd hate to have to leave because I _might_ be ill,” Sybil protested, coughing as she suddenly realized how sore her throat felt.

 

“I'm afraid not,” Edna chuckled, but Sybil saw the suspicion twinkling in her dark blue eyes, “I'll clean this up, you go and let Collins know you'll have to take the rest of the day off.”

 

“No, I couldn't have you clean this up,” Sybil immediately protested, but Edna's hand on her shoulder held her back as she stepped forward.

 

“Don't worry, Sybil, truly, it's no bother. I insist.”

 

-

 

Tom shrugged off his wet coat the second he shut the front door behind him, eyes adjusting to the dark hallway. Cursing under his breath – white clouds appearing in front of his mouth as he exhaled – he shook the coat over the wooden floor.

 

“Boy, leave the sea where it belongs, not on my floor.”

 

His heart nearly jumped out of his chest, and for a moment he thought Sybil might have to revenge his death at the hands of an elderly woman.

 

Mrs Gallagher, tea-stained apron wrapped tightly around her, and her grey hair sticking up frizzly from her head, stood in the doorway to her flat, hands folded over her stomach. She eyed Tom sternly, but somehow still managed to smile kindly, a welcoming gesture, the sign of her gratefulness.

 

“Beg pardon,” Tom said politely, quickly stuffing his coat under his arm, shivering as the rain began to seep into the fabric of his shirt, “Is everything alright? I'll have a look at your window on Saturday, just as soon as we get back from my sister's house.”

 

“Oh, no hurry, my dear,” Mrs Gallagher – Tom wondered for a moment if her name was Molly, but he could not be sure – said quickly, waving her hand. Last week, she had complained about a leak in her bedroom window, and he had promised to take a look and fix it for her. “You make sure to take care of your own worries, before fixing leaks for a poor old woman like me.”

 

She laughed, her voice as dry as gravel, deep and warm, but with a harsh edge to it. 

 

“No worries so pressing as a leak in the window,” he chuckled, wiping a raindrop of his forehead that was quickly making its way towards his nose.

 

“Are you sure, my lad? You better ask Mrs Branson if she agrees with you.”

 

“What do you mean?” Tom asked, confused, and eager to take off his wet shoes.

 

“She came rushing in here, must have been around one o'clock, looking white as a sheet,” Mrs Gallagher reported, sounding worried herself.

 

“I'll better go upstairs, thank you,” Tom said quickly, already halfway up the stairs when he stopped and turned around, “And I'll still have a look on Saturday, I promise.”

 

He saw Mrs Gallagher nod and heard her dusty laugh, before he took the last few steps up the stairs. The front door to their flat was unlocked, and he stepped inside quickly, flooded by the warmth of the fire.

 

“Sybil?” he called straight away, kicking off his shoes and carelessly dumping his coat and hat by the door. There was always time to hang them up by the fire later, they had all night to dry.

 

He had barely taken three steps across the room when Sybil appeared in the kitchen doorway, not in her uniform but in a skirt and shirt, barefoot, wiping her forehead.

 

“I was waiting for you,” she said with a wide smile, walking towards him with almost bouncy steps. Meeting him halfway, she leaned on her tiptoes to kiss him softly, resting her hands on his shoulders.

 

Tom was taken aback, pulling away from her, and eyeing her with concern. Her cheeks were flushed, probably from the heat in the kitchen, and her smile was broad and genuine, almost excited. Still, he could make out the dark rings surrounding her eyes, and the paleness that was only partly concealed by her flush.

 

“Are you alright? Mrs Gallagher told me off downstairs for bringing in all the rain, and she said you've been here since this afternoon.”

 

Sybil sighed, brushing her fingers over Tom's shoulders. He reached out for her himself now, resting his hands on her waist, pulling her a little closer to him.

 

“I was sick at the hospital, so Edna told me to go home,” she told him, purposely avoiding his gaze.

 

“You were sick?” he asked worriedly, and Sybil almost cut him off in her attempt to reassure him of her well-being.

 

“It's fine, really. It must have been the fish, I told you it tasted funny. But I had to report to Nurse Collins, and she told me to stay home tomorrow, as well, just in case it is something else. But I have been fine ever since, truly.”

 

“Sybil,” Tom began, but she was quicker, placing her finger softly against his lips.

 

“I know you are worried about me, Tom, and I won't pretend that doesn't mean the world to me,” she said softly, “But you have to trust me. I'm fine, truly.”

 

The look in Tom's eyes told Sybil exactly what he thought, disbelief and concern as evident as the exhaustion of a day at work. 

 

“Nothing is wrong, trust me. I know it.”

 

“How?” Tom asked, his breath fanning across Sybil's finger as she removed her hand, “How do you know?”

 

She sighed, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

 

“I just know.”

 

.:.

 

Light, feathery snow flakes floated through the air, and each exhale of breath created a white fog so thick that it swallowed the tiny flakes.

 

Sybil pulled her thick scarf tighter around her neck, feeling the icy cold against her flushed cheeks. Her fingertips ached inside of her gloves, and as much as she enjoyed the walk through the park with Tom's mother, she could not wait to reach her fingers out towards a crackling fire.

 

“She's as stubborn as Tom, I can tell you,” Mrs Branson said with an unnerved expression on her kind face, “Always has been. Those two, you always had to keep twenty pairs of eyes on them, no matter what you said and what they did. Never mattered. Like talking to a brick wall.”

 

Sybil chuckled, eyes glancing over the small lake they were slowly approaching. Soon, it would be frozen, the air already sharp with cold.

 

“I think I know exactly what you mean,” she agreed, smiling to herself as she remembered how extraordinarily patient, and stubbornly persistent, Tom had been during all those years in which she could not make up her mind about what she felt, how strong those feelings were and how much they were worth, how much she was willing to leave behind.

 

“I told her. I must have told her a dozen times, that I don't mind taking Cillian for a few hours,” Tom's mother continued her rant about Tom's sister Shinead. She had twisted her ankle two days earlier, while hurrying to pull her two-year-old son away from the fireplace, her newborn baby on her arm, “But _no_ , she just won't let me help. Never. Not even when Cillian was born. Could barely stand on her own feet but refused to let me help. Too proud for her own good. And this is what she gets. _Now_ she really needs my help but won't ask for it, so she sends that poor husband of hers to do it for her.”

 

It had not been Shinead who had informed her mother about what had happened, and that somebody needed to look after Cillian and their newborn daughter while Shinead made a trip to the doctor. Her husband, Aengus, had been the one to take the trip to her mother's house to ask the favour of her.

 

“But she does get along very well, doesn't she?” Sybil asked, “When Tom and I visited the other day, she seemed quite well.”

 

She remembered how easily Shinead had seemed to nurse the tiny, red-haired infant in her arms, restrain the wild boy chasing imaginary monsters around the house and clinging to Tom's leg like a bird holding on to a branch, and serving her guests warm tea, hot soup, a fire crackling, and the sofa plush and comfortable. Never before had Sybil seen someone handling _so much_ so smoothly, and with so much warmth and passion. Without a maid, without any help, and Sybil had felt more warm and welcome and at home than during any dinner party she could recall.

 

“She does get along, but at what expanse?” Tom's mother asked, sighing, “There's no shame in asking for help every now and then.”

 

They were passing the small lake now, surrounded by leaf-less bushes. The gravel underneath their shoes was crunching loudly in the silence left in the near absence of wind.

 

“I suppose that is true, “ Sybil agreed, kneading her fingers, “I really don't know if Tom and I had been able to have such a smooth start here without your help. I'm so grateful.”

 

It was the truth. No matter how little Mrs. Branson had thought of her eldest son's choice, she had helped the both of them to start their new life together. She had been the one to find the small flat they now called theirs, had taken it upon herself to show Sybil around the streets of Dublin while Tom was working, had given her a room to stay before her and Tom became husband and wife. And despite the fact that she was an outsider, a foreigner, a stranger, Tom's mother had never made Sybil feel that way.

 

“And don't ever hesitate to ask for help,” Mrs Branson said, smiling brightly at her daughter-in-law, “I'd be glad. I really am sorry for calling Tom and you foolish. I am not saying that you weren't, but I suppose a single pair of fools can do no harm. And you make him so happy, and I'm glad to have you here, my dear.”

 

Sybil felt her heart swell at the sudden honesty of the confession. It was almost brutal, how alike Tom and his mother were in certain ways. They said what they felt, although his mother knew when it was time to let silence speak for itself.

 

“I quite admire Shinead, actually,” Sybil said, feeling almost a little embarrassed at her mother-in-law's words. It was new, having people tell her things like this, emotions like this, in such a straightforward way, “I mean, Tom never spoke much of her, although I don't understand why. She gets on so well, and seems to have everything under control all the time. I've never seen anyone so calm.”

 

“She was always like that. Quiet, but so fierce, you have to be careful around her. Tom never really spoke about any of his siblings. Never. To friends and other family, he never mentioned them. I remember we ran into his teacher once, all four of them and me. His teacher made himself look like a fool, Tom had never mention his sisters or his brother. He was always so protective of them.”

 

Both women smiled as they passed an elderly couple walking along the gravel path, the snow flakes thickening. Sybil suddenly felt trapped in her hat, coat and gloves, an uncomfortable flutter ripping through her chest.

 

“I know what you mean, only... _I_ was the one everybody was always protective of.”

 

“Because you are the youngest?”

 

Sybil nodded, a sudden flash of memories of party dresses and horses and vast gardens and dolls and shouts and bickering, seasons and suitors and watchful glances and rolling eyes and annoyed sighs, a motor in the night, a door bursting open, all under the watchful eye of a swan.

 

“Yes.”

 

“There's no wrong in that.”

 

“Not really, no. Only I never saw it that way later on. But I do now.”

 

Mary and Edith. _Mary and Edith._ Sybil swallowed. It was still painful, her family's rejection, their refusal to accept what had happened and was irreversible. 

 

Mary and Edith. Mary and Edith, who had been the only members of her family to attend her wedding, who had fastened her dress and pinned up her hair.

 

Mary and Edith, who had been united as sisters that happy day, who had, despite glances and stares and pursed lips, made an effort to fit it. To accept. To see that this was right for Sybil. Sybil, whom they had always protected from the world and all its monsters, back when they lived under their beds, until the day they wore uniforms or suits and spoke in eloquent ways.

 

“Tom mentioned you weren't feeling very well lately?”

 

It was hard not to sigh in annoyance. Partly, Sybil was relieved at the distraction, of not having to think about her family more than necessary, and partly she wanted to rush home and tell Tom that there was no need to inform his mother about her state of health, unless it was something actually important.

 

“I've been having headaches for a while now, but it's nothing to worry about, “Sybil answered, feeling like a broken record on a gramophone, turning and turning and repeating herself, “I suppose it's all so new and a big adjustment, maybe it all got a bit too much for a while. I'm feeling better. I rarely have headaches any more, only every once in a while.”

 

That much was true. However, Sybil felt there really was no need to tell her mother-in-law, or anyone at all, that she had had to excuse herself more than a handful of times in the week that had passed since she had returned to work, rushing to the hospital's rest rooms as quick as her stomach could take. For now, nobody had noticed, and Sybil had not mentioned it to Tom. 

 

She did not want to destroy what little reassurance she had been able to build. Still, she had made the decision for herself, and had arranged an afternoon off in a weeks time, to see one of the doctors at a different hospital. She was still sure that nothing was actually wrong, but she did not want anyone at work believing that she was not fit to do her job. Most especially Nurse Hayes, who, as much as she may have softened, was still determined to cause Sybil to leave, and used every possible straw to make another attempt at pushing her out.

 

“You need to know for yourself when you feel like something is wrong. Don't be too harsh on Tom, though, my dear,” Mrs. Branson said softly, but with determination, casting Sybil a strong glance, “He cares too much for his own good, he always has. Don't shut him out.”

 

“He told you I didn't want to see a doctor, didn't he?”

 

“He did.”

 

This time, Sybil could not hold back the sigh. Without another word, she left the gravel path and sat down on one of the benches, watching her mother-in-law as she took the seat next to her.

 

“I just, somehow, know I'm not ill. There is nothing wrong. I don't want to bother anyone. I _will_ take care of myself. But, it is hard to make him understand. I don't want to shut him out, truly. That is the last thing I want.”

 

Tom's mother looked at her calmly, reaching her hand out to gently pat Sybil's arm.

 

“He knows that.”

 

Sybil smiled, and the two women turned to watch a group of children playing on a stretch of grass nearby, dancing amongst the rapidly increasing snow flakes.

 

.:.

 

“Tom?”

 

She stumbled into their flat just after the sun set, the chill of harsh evening air having flushed her cheeks, and the darkness of the hallway causing her eyes to burn as she stepped into their dimly-lit sitting room.

 

The short walk from the park had been exhausting, each step a fight against the increasing snowfall, and by the time she had arrived at the narrow house that Mrs Gallagher had owned for seemingly decades, the ground had been covered in a faint layer of white, soft snow.

 

“There you are,” Tom said as he came walking out of the kitchen, drying his hands with the only kitchen towel they owned that did not have burn marks, yet, “I was getting worried.”

 

“We ran into your mother's neighbour,” Sybil explained, unbuttoning her coat as Tom kissed her forehead softly.

 

Tom chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of Sybil's face, which the melting snowflakes had plastered to her flushed skin, “Oh, no need to explain, I understand.”

 

“I now know a lot of very interesting things about people I never even heard of,” Sybil said with a smug smile, feeling the warmth of the fire and Tom's touch seep into her as she removed her hat. All afternoon, she had longed to be back in his arms.

 

She was grateful to spend time with his mother, to build a relationship with her and become a true member of his family. But at the end of the day, it was him she had married, him she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, him she wanted to be the last person to see before she fell asleep. Him she wanted to be held by.

 

“I have to warn you, she isn't the most reliable source of information,” Tom said, and Sybil laughed lightly, “Did you have a nice time?”

 

“I did. But my feet are freezing.”

 

“Give me that, I'll put it up by the fire,” Tom offered, taking Sybil's damp coat, hat and scarf out of her hands. As he carefully adjusted everything in front of the fireplace, Sybil sank down into one of the chairs, suddenly feeling a wave of fatigue. It had been a long day of walking and rushing and talking, and it seemed that it was all crushing down on her now, in the warmth of her home, Tom's hands resting on her shoulder.

 

She sighed as he squeezed gently, letting her eyes fall shut. For a few minutes, they were still together, relaxing, taking notice of nothing but each other's breathing. Feeling herself slowly slip out of consciousness, Sybil brushed her fingers against Tom's hand, turning her head to smile softly.

 

Tom leaned down to kiss the top of her head, before walking across the room to the small end table they had bought last month. Sybil leaned down to untie her shoes, freeing her freezing feet.

 

“This one if for you,” Tom suddenly said, and when Sybil looked up from her soaked stockings, she saw him holding up an envelope, “From your sister.”

 

“Which one?” she asked dryly, looking down at her feet again.

 

“Mary.”

 

“Just put it with the rest of the post, I'll read it tomorrow. I'm rather tired,” she said, placing her shoes by the fire and pushing herself off the chair.

 

“Don't do this, Sybil.”

 

Tom's voice was surprisingly stern, and Sybil looked at him with confusion as he stood there, the letter still in his hand.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“This,” he said, dropping the letter onto the end table, “Pushing your family away.”

 

“I'm not pushing them away, they pushed me, I am certain you remember that,” Sybil replied, her voice filling with the familiar frustration, word by word.

 

“They love you, Sybil. They write, and that, as frustrating as that might be, I think is all you can ask for at the moment. I am worried about you.”

 

“Why?”

 

Tom swallowed, and Sybil felt her heart flutter as she saw the concern glimmering in his eyes. He stepped closer, gently resting his palms on her upper arms, holding her just barely.

 

“I know how much they mean to you, and I want you to be happy. I can't change who I am, I will never be who they want me to be, and what we did will always be a thorn to them. All they are willing to do is this for now, and I can see you rejecting that. You don't read their letters for weeks sometimes, and I know your replies are short. I know you are angry, and so am I, but we knew there was a chance for things to be this way, and I don't want you to waste the only chance you might get at reconciling with them, darling. I don't want you to wake up one day, and regret your decision because your family has cast you off entirely.”

 

Silence fell upon them as his last word was spoken, and Sybil looked deeply into Tom's eyes. Her breath suddenly seemed caught in her throat, a heavy lump making it difficult to fill her lungs with the air it needed so badly right now. She had seen his suspicious looks before, when he found unopened letters, or saw her replying to letters she had received weeks before. However, she never knew that he blamed himself for her twisted situation. That he was afraid she was pulling away.

 

That one day, all her love might turn into blame, regret and anger.

 

“I'm not ready, Tom,” she whispered, wrapping her cold fingers gently around Tom's neck, “It makes me so terribly angry. It is always Mama and Mary or Edith, sometimes they leave a message from Granny, but it is as if Papa did not even exist or acknowledges that I did not die, that I am still _here_. And that I'm happy. Tom, _please_ , do not think that my family will make me regret my choice, because I never will. I am so, _so_ happy here with you. And no matter what comes, I know I made the right decision.”

 

“But you might still regret not taking this chance,” Tom replied, his voice just as low, barely above a whisper. He lifted one of his hands to cup her cheek, and she leaned into his touch, remembering how unbelievably tired she was.

 

“What chance? Writing a few letters each year, letting them know I'm well, when they won't believe it either way?”

 

“Sybil-”

 

“Tom, they did not accept you,” she interrupted, anger beginning to take over her tired mind, “They are _my_ issue, and you are not to worry about them.”

 

“But what if something happens?” Tom asked, dropping his hands, “What if there is a need to travel back to Downton? You never know. What if your sisters are getting married, or, God forbid, someone dies, Sybil? Would you want to be kept out? What if we are starting a family one day? Would you want to keep _them_ out?”

 

Sybil was just about to tell Tom that it was never her decision to be kept out or be put in a position to keep anyone else out, when her mind suddenly went blank, and all she heard or thought was the echo of Tom's last words.

 

_starting a family._

 

She began to feel her heart flutter violently in her chest, and every single moment of weakness and dizziness and pain that had accompanied the last few weeks began to roam her thoughts like a ghost hunting a long lost ruin.

 

Why had that thought never occurred to her? Had she really been this blind and oblivious, when it now seemed the one answer to suit all her problems and thoughts? Maybe there really was nothing wrong with her, maybe she was not sick, just as she had reassured Tom of all this time.

 

_Maybe..._

 

Absent-mindedly, Sybil rested her hand flat on her stomach, feeling the coolness of her palm through the layers of fabric.

 

“Sybil?”

 

Tom's worried voice pulled Sybil back into their small sitting room, and her eyes met his in a frenzy of wild thoughts.

 

“Oh, Tom,” she murmured, stepping close to him to allow his arms to wrap themselves around her, “I knew very well this was likely to happen, when we left. But I'll read the letter after dinner, if it makes you feel more at ease.”

 

“I don't want to make you do it, Sybil.”

 

“You are not, I promise.”

 

Closing her eyes, Sybil rested her head against Tom's chest, suddenly feeling aware of every fibre of her body.

 

_Not_ maybe _. It must be. For sure._


	4. family

_Other things may change us, but we start and end with family._

**Anthony Brandt**

Her feet sank deeply into the barely touched layer of pristine white snow, crunching sounds accompanying every touch of her shoes against the pavement. Sybil looked around the narrow street, not entirely sure where exactly her legs were taking her.

 

She had only been in this neighbourhood once, shortly after they had arrived in Dublin, looking at a flat only a few streets away from where she was right now, trying to find the hospital. Back then, Tom had, despite the light-flooded and cheap flat, decided against it, the neighbourhood too rough, too dangerous. With him by her side, and in the diffuse glow of excitement at having made it to Dublin with Tom as her fiancé, Sybil had not quite fully understood what Tom did, had not seen things the way Tom did. However, now, all by herself in the early onset of winter, arms wrapped around herself to keep herself warm, and the throbbing excitement and anxiousness at what she was about to find out – the sudden need to be more responsible – Sybil understood.

 

The street was narrow, and whomever she passed cast her a suspicious glare, almost as if her past was written upon her forehead in the darkest ink. Maybe it was her wildly beating heart, maybe the need to protect herself, that made her see all these things, but what did it matter? She was glad that they had decided against this neighbourhood, that they had their small flat in Mrs Gallagher's house.

 

Catching sight of the hospital over the nearest rooftop, Sybil realized what _this_ might mean. Their flat was tiny, crammed when they had visitors, perfect for them. The two of them. But if she was right, if right now, she was taking her last steps with the assumption it was only herself she had to worry about, then everything would have to change. Now that they had finally settled, that things went smoothly, that she had gotten used to her work, that they were able to pay the rent on time, everything was about to be thrown over and turned entirely upside down.

 

Their flat was not the right place to start a family, to raise a child.

 

Sybil sighed, her hand fluttering to her stomach once again. In the last few days since her argument with Tom, since the explanation for her health issues had dawned on her, she had found herself doing this quite frequently. Her hand constantly seemed to hoover over her belly, both in a curious and protective manner.

 

Slowly, the afternoon took away all natural source of light, everything tinted in bluish grey. She turned a corner, and was relieved to see the hospital entrance across the street. Taking a deep breath, Sybil took those last few steps, unsure what to think or feel.

 

-

 

A baby. They were really going to have a child. Their child. A son or a daughter, only theirs. Sybil's mind was entirely occupied with the confirmation she had just received, her feet barely moving forward.

 

This was so tremendously unexpected, such a shock, that she felt as if someone had pulled all solid ground from underneath her feet, and she was merely floating in the air, gently, held up by the turmoil of her thoughts.

 

Of course she knew that this was the natural consequence. That married couples, if in good health, started a family of their own. That every time she and Tom were all alone, lost in their little world, could have lead to this. Still, now that it had actually happened, the thought of being a mother, of brining a child into this world, of a small human being growing inside of her, seemed so utterly strange and foreign to Sybil.

 

She was overwhelmed by everything, not sure if she wanted to be happy or sad, scared or enthusiastic, or how she _should_ feel, what was expected of her. It was all different now from how it could have been.

 

Had the war never happened, she would probably be married for a long time by now, with multiple children calling her _mama_. A son, an heir, that would be her purpose. Now, she knew that no family member would despise her for giving birth to a girl, that she had her work, that being a mother and wife was not her sole purpose.

 

But how would this change things? What would they do?

 

The sudden noise of a crowd as she rounded a corner reminded Sybil that she was, in fact, still settled in reality, that her thoughts had not transported her into a faraway place. It was only early evening, but it might as well have been the middle of the night. Stopping at the corner, Sybil eyed whatever she could make out in the darkness, and from afar.

 

A few houses ahead of her, a small crowd was bustling along, some shouting, some articulating wildly. Sybil was sure she heard a woman cry for a moment, before a deep and rumbling shout muted all other noise. It only took Sybil a short moment then, to realize what was happening, and when the soldier's torch flickered over the broken shop window, Sybil turned on her feet quickly, crossing the street.

 

Tom would not be home for at least another hour, so there was no need to hurry back home. Feeling more reassured, and with much quicker feet, Sybil turned into a wider street, glad to remember the long way around the more narrow street she had planned to walk along.

 

It seemed that quite a few other people had chosen this road to avoid the chaotic scene at the vandalized shop, the snow barely recognisable as such, merely a grey, muddy mess. Taking careful steps along the slippery pavement, Sybil was suddenly hit by a flood of anxiety.

 

What world would her child be born into? What danger, what mess, what chaos, what passion and despair? Was this turmoil what she wanted for her child? Or the golden-coated restraints of the world she herself had been born into, had grown up alongside with?

 

Wrapping her arms protectively around her midsection, Sybil lowered her head, trying to avoid the harsh, freezing wind that faced her.

 

The only thing she was sure of as she made her way back home, was that she wanted so much to share this with Tom. The big news, every fear, every moment of joy, every frightful and delightful prospect that this brought. He was as much a part of this as she was, and with each step, Sybil became more eager to tell her husband, to finally tie all loose ends that still tangled around them in the breeze.

 

They were going to have their very own family.

 

.:.

 

Putting down her fork, Sybil carefully pressed her handkerchief against her lips – a little sore from the harsh wind. Her eyes were focused on Tom, sitting at the opposite end of the table, staring at his empty plate.

 

After she had finally arrived home, Sybil had leaned against the closed front door of their flat for a few minutes, grateful for the privacy, for a moment of safety and quiet to think. So badly had she wanted to turn the flat into pristine condition, scrub the floors, polish the cutlery, put new sheets on the bed and prepare a festive dinner. Something inside of her told her the moment to come should be special, something to remember for the rest of both her and Tom's life.

 

However, one quick glance at the clock had shattered all those plans, and Sybil had barely had time to lit a small fire – although she was proud to have learned to manage this so quickly, and with lots of aid from Tom – and prepare a small dinner. In fact, when Tom had arrived, quietly and kissing her cheek when she leaned in to meet his lips, she had not even taken of her nurses cap. If Tom had taken notice of it, he did not say. Instead, he disappeared into their bedroom for a few minutes, and returned in different shirt and trousers, hair dishevelled in the way Sybil had learned only happened when he was so deep in thought that he ruffled his hair.

 

“You looked very distracted tonight,” she now said, placing her handkerchief next to her deserted fork. Maybe tonight was not the time, she thought, when Tom lifted his head, and looked so distant.

 

“I wouldn't want to bother you with it,” he said with a sigh, reaching for his own handkerchief.

 

“Tom,” Sybil muttered sternly, and Tom sighed again. He knew. Being honest with each other was the very basis of their relationship. Had he never been honest with her, they would not be sharing dinner this night. God only knows where they would be, and both of them always felt so utterly disappointed when the other made an attempt to keep something secret, even for good reasons.

 

“It's Sean.”

 

“What happened?” Sybil asked worriedly, “Is Maera alright?”

 

They had not heard much from Sean and Caitlin since their visit, and Sybil was still as worried about their young daughter as she had been for weeks.

 

“She's much, much better,” Tom reassured her quickly, “It's not her. Sean, he... He almost got himself arrested today.”

 

Sybil's eyes widened in shock, and for a few seconds, she forgot all about the plans she had made, the words she had practised, the reactions she had imagined so vividly.

 

“Apparently he was being too much f himself around one of the British soldiers. Connelly heard about it, and he figured we were related and told me.”

 

Sybil sighed. This was not the first time there was a mention like this, of Sean getting into trouble. So far, it had been minor things, basically not worth mentioning. But this seemed like the step to something bigger, like a progress in the entirely wrong directions, and Sybil worried about where that path would lead in the end.

 

“You should talk to Sean, Tom,” she said with a serious voice, regarding the frustration and obvious worry in her husband's eyes, “I know how frustrating it all is, for everyone here, and how hard he takes it especially. But he has a family. What are they going to do if something happens to him? Or if he ends up behind bars?”

 

Sybil was unsure why she felt like tearing out a fragment of her heart as she spoke, why it seemed to hurt and cause her eyes to burn with the ache to cry. But she knew how much more she understood of this now. Now that she was going to have to protect a family of her own.

 

“He thinks so highly of you, Tom. Maybe you have a chance to get through to him.”

 

“I might have a few years ago,” Tom replied, a sense of resignation in his voice that was foreign to Sybil, “But ever since I moved to England for work, and since I married you, I think he lost a lot of the respect he used to have. He was disappointed when I left, and it's taking him so terribly long to accept you into the family. If I'm being perfectly honest, had I not gone, I would probably think just like him today.”

 

“But you did go.”

 

“I did.”

 

They looked at each other silently for a while, each of them imagining their lives planning out without ever meeting the other. The prospect frightened Sybil, and she struggled to find words to end the silence with.

 

“Still, you two are so close. Couldn't you at least try to get through to him?”

 

Something seemed to shift inside of Tom, and Sybil knew the second he looked into her eyes. The mild fury, the frustration, reminded her of that argument they had shared after she told their secret to Mary, after she had let him wait for an answer for so long, and still had not been willing to give him one. That night he had broken her heart a little, had disappointed her so much. The night he had to sneak into a corridor of the big house where he had no business being, only to apologize to her before the soldiers began their concert.

 

“Do you really think I did not already try? I tried telling him that he puts his wife and children in even more jeopardy than all this mess does in the first place, that he isn't doing any good. If he were alone, if it were only him, I'd let him go on without a word, but I made clear time and time again that he is _not_ alone, that he has other ties, that he is bound, that he has responsibilities.”

 

Tom's words melted with the warm silence of the room, and Sybil felt a flood of sadness.

 

“Am I a responsibility?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Am I holding you back?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper.

 

Realization dawned on Tom's features, and before Sybil could really process the movement, he was kneeling in front of her, taking her hands in his.

 

“Of course not, Sybil,” he said decisively, gently pulling Sybil closer to the edge of her chair so her knees where pressing into his stomach, “I'm doing the exact thing I want to be doing. Maybe it is not what I would have wanted to do a few years ago, but what does that matter? I doubt you always planned to marry the chauffeur.”

 

There was a twinkle in his eyes, that hint of confidence that sometimes drove Sybil crazy, and she could not hold back the laughter that escaped her lips.

 

“That is true, I must admit,” she answered, earning a chuckle from Tom, whose thumbs were brushing softly along the back of her hands. With the mood shifted once more, Sybil suddenly remembered what she still had to do, and her heartbeat quickened at the thought.

 

“Is something the matter with you? Or have I spoiled the mood entirely?” Tom asked with concern and guilt clearly evident in his voice, raising a bit higher on his knees.

 

“No, you haven't,” Sybil assured him with a smile, glancing down at their joined hands, “Only... There is something I have been wanting to tell you ever since you came home, I just could not figure out how, or when, and I suppose I should find a special moment, some way that _means_ something. But I need you to know so terribly much.”

 

She turned her hands so their palms touched, and Tom instinctively curled his fingers around hers.

 

“What is it, Sybil? You are scaring me a little, I hope you know that.”

 

“I had an appointment with a doctor today,” she told him rather bluntly, knowing that waiting much longer would turn her mind into an utter mess.

 

“Why didn't you say?” Tom asked, no blame in his voice, but obvious surprise.

 

“I didn't want to distract you. You have been so worried for weeks, that seemed enough to trouble you with.”

 

Tom looked at her deeply, and Sybil knew he did not agree with her reasoning. However, something in her eyes must have convinced Tom that now was not the time to discuss that.

 

“What did he say?” he asked instead, holding on to her hands a little tighter. Sybil could see all his worries balling up into a tight coil right in front of her, and she smiled softly at him.

 

“There is nothing wrong.”

 

“Well, that is... _good_ , I suppose?” Tom asked, and Sybil almost had to suppress a giggle at his confusion that was so painfully obvious.

 

“But there _is_ something.”

 

“What?”

 

Suddenly Sybil felt more nervous than ever before in her life. Her heart had never beat this fast, her skin had never prickled this much. Not when she had gotten into the white dress for her first season in London, not before she had left Downton to train as a nurse, not before that night in the drawing room when she and Tom had informed her family about their plans, not before her wedding day, not for a single second during her wedding night.

 

“I know we have not discussed this much yet, but we knew, I mean...” she stuttered, struggling to find the _right_ words.

 

“Why are you blushing?” Tom asked, obviously still confused, but concerned, as well.

 

“We might have to find a new flat.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because we are going to have a baby.”

 

It felt like utterly exhilarating. Sybil remembered a humid summer day when she had, along with a reluctant Mary and indifferent Edith, explored the house, and the three of them had stumbled upon an unused bedroom. The windows had been nailed shut, and after an hour of begging and pleasing and putting her shining blue eyes to good use, her father had send someone upstairs to remove the wooden planks from the windows.

 

When the first of many planks had come off, a sudden burst of sunlight had flooded the room, illuminating it, baring everything that time, darkness and dust had hidden. The relief she had felt back then, the sheer excitement, was nothing compared to how she felt in this moment, looking intently into Tom's wide eyes.

 

“We- what?”

 

“A baby.”

 

“You're-”

 

“Pregnant, yes,” she confirmed, feeling Tom's fingers tremble slightly beneath hers. He was still quiet, simply staring at her in awe, confusion and shock.

 

“Aren't you going to say anything?” she asked, all her worries suddenly returning to her mind, scared that this was not the right time, that he was not ready, that _they_ were not ready, that this was not the way things had been planned.

 

“That is...,” Tom began, but when he hesitated, Sybil could not hold back the words that threatened to burst from her tongue.

 

“I know we didn't really take that into consideration, and I feel so stunned, and I barely know what to make of this, but-”

 

Before she had the chance to put all her worries into words, Sybil felt two warm arms wrap around her, and soft lips pressing against her own.

 

“I love you so much, Sybil,” Tom murmured against her lips, cupping her flushed cheeks in his hands, “So, _so_ much.”

 

Sybil smiled into their kiss, and leaned closer, her own arms acting on their own accord as they wrapped around Tom's neck, fingers sinking into his hair.

 

“Are you happy?” she whispered softly as they parted, faces only an inch apart, eyes fixed on each other. Tom nodded slowly, stroking his thumb across Sybil's cheek. When her eyes fell shut with a soft, almost inaudible sigh of comfort, the tip of his thumb brushed lightly against Sybil's eyelashes.

 

“More now than ever before,” Tom said, leaning in to press his lips against Sybil's forehead, not retreating as their breathing and heartbeats calmed down, “Are you?”

 

For a short moment, Sybil wondered, still aware of all the fears that throbbed inside of her. Then, however, she let the warmth of the moment take over. She realized that this moment right now, was not the time for worries, fears and complications to come. This was the special moment she had wished for, the one she would cherish and remember for the rest of her life.

 

“Yes.”

 

.:.

 

The next two days passed in a quiet blur or happiness and confusion, for both Sybil and Tom. It was still surreal, the knowledge that this time next year, they would share their lives completely with another human being, one that they had created, that was entirely their own responsibility and focus of all the love and joy they had to give.

 

Tom seemed so natural around Sybil, caring and careful, keeping her close. When they returned to work, neither of them could properly concentrate, their minds wandering around, mapping out all that the future had to give.

 

It was their secret for now, their little treasure to keep safe and quiet. Maybe until the dust – in their case the sheer joy, but terrifying prospects of the future – had settled, maybe until they had made more plans, maybe until it felt right to let other people share their news. For now, this was purely their own wonder.

 

“It should be easier to find a new flat, now that we've lived and worked here for a while and haven't had any trouble,” Tom said quietly as he lay on their bed, facing Sybil. His one hand rested on the curve of her waist, covered only by the thin white of her nightdress, the other resting between them, Sybil's fingertips dancing across the lines in his palm.

 

“Do you think we could find one around here?” Sybil asked, pushing her legs closer to Tom's, craving his warmth, “I like it here, and it's so close to the hospital, and it's a nice walk for you, and your mother lives close by. It would be ideal.”

 

Tom nodded, smiling as Sybil scooted closer and closer to him.

 

“I'll have a look tomorrow. If nothing big comes in I can leave an hour early, so that gives me plenty of time to ask around.”

 

“Do you want to live here, too?” she asked, her voice suddenly much more serious, the mood shifting between them, “I know you said so when we first moved here, but maybe that was for all the wrong reasons.”

 

Tom moved his hand gently from her waist over her arm and neck, all the way up to cup her cheek, even after all these months stunned by the softness of her skin and the fact that she was indeed his wife.

 

“Keeping you as safe as a I can is as far from wrong as I can imagine, darling. And I _do_ like it here. Very much,” he reassured her. The last thing he wanted was for her to believe that she was standing in his way, because he knew the fear so terribly well, the fear of becoming the greatest regret of her life.

 

“I just don't want you to make the wrong sacrifices.”

 

“I'll be the judge of that,” Tom whispered, moving so close that their noses touched. His lips pressed softly against hers, and the moment he heard the soft sigh that escaped her, and felt her relax under his touch, he knew this obstacle was overcome for tonight.

 

Over the last days, he had found himself calming down every new worry that Sybil brought up, reassuring her, while trying to not succumb to all the fears and insecurities he was facing himself.

 

Almost instinctively by now, his hand slid back down, feeling the goose bumps his touch caused as his fingers trailed down the side of her neck, before the palm of his hand came to rest on Sybil's lower stomach, feeling the bare hint of swelling there. Perhaps he was imagining it, wishing for it, for this physical evidence of the life they have created. But for now, it was enough to rest his hand on her warm skin, and imagine their child here with them.

 

“There is something else that I have been thinking about,” he murmured after a while, unwilling to part their lips, but knowing that this was something they needed to discuss sooner rather than later.

 

“What is it?” Sybil asked hoarsely, eyelids heavy with sleep.

 

“Your work.”

 

The deepness of her sigh told Tom that he has not been the only one to think about this.

 

“I know,” Sybil muttered, and the resignation in her voice frightened Tom more than he had anticipated. Taking a stronger hold of her hand, he came to rest on his back, pulling Sybil gently on top of him.

 

“I want to do everything I can to make sure you can go back to work,” he said determinedly, resting his free hand on Sybil's back, thumbs drawing every shape he could imagine and more, “I know how much it means to you, and how fulfilling it is to you. Whatever I can do, I will do. I promise.”

 

“I simply do not see what there is to do. If I am to go back to work, who will look after the baby? I can hardly bring it to work with me.”

 

“You underestimate my mother's enthusiasm for her grandchildren,” Tom said with a light grin on his lips, and he could see Sybil's eyes lightening up slightly, “She'd take him or her in for the rest of her life if we let her.”

 

“But I could never ask that of her,” Sybil sighed, and Tom kissed her cheek softly, having anticipated this reaction, “It seems so rude and forward. This is our child, and to ask it of someone else to look after him or her because we can not find the time, what will that say about us as parents, Tom?”

 

“Darling, a child has rarely been raised by two people alone. After my father died and my mother had to earn all the money, she rotated us from relative to relative. Sometimes I didn't see my siblings for days at a time, because it was hard to find someone who could afford to take all four of us in. It could not have been easy for my mother, but there simply was no other way.”

 

Sybil looked deeply into his eyes as he finished, and Tom could see her thoughts twisting and turning, attempting to imagine what his childhood must have been like in comparison to her own.

 

“I think I'd like to spend as much time as I can with the baby, at home,” she finally whispered, resting her hands on Tom's shoulders.

 

“That is alright, whatever you think will make you happiest.”

 

“It is only...,” Sybil began, her eyes losing focus as they always did when her family became a topic in a conversation, “My mother was never much around when my sisters and me were younger. Later on, yes. But I don't remember her as part of my childhood all that much. It was always someone else looking after us, teaching us, playing with us. And I want that to be different for our child. I want to _be_ there.”

 

“This is your choice, Sybil. Whatever you choose, I'll do everything I can to help.”

 

“They might not even want me back, you know. At the hospital.”

 

“You can't know that now. Let's cross that bridge when we come to it,” Tom replied, fingers sifting through Sybil's soft hair, “And if they don't, we'll find a hospital that will.”

 

Sybil smiled lovingly, leaning forward to press her lips firmly against Tom's. Their breathing grew ragged quickly, both of them overly eager, yet tired and exhausted from all that was going through their minds. As they parted, both with a similar heavy heart, Sybil rested her cheek against Tom's chest. The sound and feel of his heart beating beneath her almost instantly lulled her into sleep, but her mind would not allow her to rest just yet.

 

“Does it feel just as odd to you?” she asked, eyes focussed on the soft movement of the curtain as the wind howled outside.

 

“Not odd, no,” Tom whispered, nudging his nose against the top of her head, “I never felt like anything was more perfect than this.”

 

“Our child,” Sybil murmured, her eyes becoming too heavy with sleep for her to keep them open.

 

“Yes.”

 

Tom softly kissed the part of Sybil's head that he was able to reach, feeling her breathing evenly in his arms.

 

“Good night,” he whispered, wrapping her up in his arms, as his own eyes fell shut.

 

.:.

 

“I don't think it's quite the time yet.”

 

They were sitting comfortably at their small table, fire cracking in the background, cutlery clinging and the beef stew steaming. Tom nodded, reaching for the loaf of bread placed between them.

 

“I'll let you decide when you feel like it is the right time to tell people, but don't you think your colleagues should be aware of it?”

 

“They'll send me home, Tom,” Sybil said determinedly, setting her spoon down, “Whether they'll allow me to come back in the future or not, when I tell them that I'm pregnant, they won't risk keeping me working. And I need some distraction, Tom. This is all so much to think about, and I don't want to over think it. And simply to imagine doing _nothing_ earlier than I have to, that's such a horrid thought.”

 

“I don't know how you ever managed it,” Tom replied, and Sybil felt confused.

 

“Managed what?”

 

“Your life before the war. Doing whatever it may be posh people do all day long,” Tom answered with a genuine, but bitter-sweet grin, “Now you are so tense when you simply have one day without a task.”

 

Sybil understood exactly what he meant now. Some days, when she was running around the hospital with the soles of her feet burning, blood coating her apron and pain-fuelled shrieks echoing from one tiled wall to the other, she found herself wondering how, not so long ago, she had spent all her days with dress fittings, paying calls and dinners. All had been so quiet and serene, perfectly in order, when, somewhere else, the real world was happening. Was demanding her attention.

 

“I suppose I only managed it, because I did not know any different,” she said, reaching for the last piece of bread to soak up her sauce, “I never knew what it was like to work, and to have a purpose. Now I do, and I don't want to miss it out.”

 

“If you feel well enough to work, then I don't see why not.”

 

“I do,” Sybil insisted, running her fingertips along the seam of her handkerchief, “I'm feeling much better than I did a few weeks ago. I'm tired, and I think Edna is getting suspicious because I need to take bathroom breaks so often, but I feel up to work for a little while longer, at least until I have to tell them.”

 

It was true. Over the last two weeks, her headaches had faded away slowly, leaving only the memory of the pain behind, a dull echo in the back of her mind. Still, more than once a day, she would find herself making up excuses to run to the bathroom. The smell of blood especially began to bother her lately, and she was considering changing wards at the hospital, if even for the few more weeks left until she would not be able to keep this a secret any more.

 

Sybil watched quietly as Tom finished the rest of his stew, and she smiled softly as he looked up.

 

“That assassination attempt at Phoenix Park, is that why you came home so late last night?” she asked, swallowing nervously.

 

Her mind had reeled with worry the night before, when she had finished dinner, and got dressed for bed without any sign of Tom. Only when she had been about to put her coat on and go outside, had he stormed through the front door, cursing the snow storm outside.

 

“Yes,” Tom replied, taking Sybil's plate to put on top of his own, “Connelly didn't let anyone go until everything was settled and we knew if there were any casualties.”

 

Last night, both of them had been so tired from worry and exhaustion, that Tom had simply muttered _work_ against her lips as he leaned further into their kiss, and they had gone to sleep before the last glim of the candle had faded away.

 

“There was one, wasn't there?” Sybil asked, the lump in her throat almost choking her, “I didn't have the time to sit down and read the paper yet.”

 

“One, yes. A few injured, and the British General they were going to assassinate survived. It was an IRA volunteer who was killed.”

 

Tom's voice sounded indifferent, factual, and Sybil suspected he had repeated every detail of what had happened a dozen times until long after sunset yesterday.

 

She sighed, eyeing the weathered wooden table.

 

“What is it?” Tom asked, and Sybil hesitated shortly, contemplating whether what was going through her mind was of enough substance to speak out loud.

 

“Whenever I heard about these incidents, or see someone being arrested, or anything like that... I just can't help but imagine what might happen to Sean.”

 

“Sean is not in the IRA, Sybil,” Tom said firmly, and Sybil felt confirmed in her suspicion that this conversation might wake the protectiveness that Tom felt towards is cousin.

 

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking up with a dead-serious expression on her face.

 

Tom stared back at her, forehead wrinkled, deep in thought. He never answered her, and his silence gave Sybil all the answers she had feared.

 

“And then I imagine you,” she murmured, kneading her hands in her lap.

 

“Me? Sybil, you know I would never-”

 

“I know, Tom,” she interrupted him, holding up her palm to silence him, “Of course I know you're not a part of that, and that you have different ways of reaching your goal. But I still imagine, that... You said the other day that, had you never come to England, you might think just like Sean.”

 

They both silently recalled the conversation, and as the minutes passed by on their own accord, Tom reached across the table to take Sybil's hand, his fingertip tracing the line of her wedding band.

 

“I wouldn't have joined, one way or another,” he reassured her, remembering how much his life had changed since he had met Sybil, how much better it had become, what other goals she had offered him, “I won't deny that I understand their reasoning, but what they do, they are taking it too far. And further each day.”

 

“I'm only worrying, that you'll get caught up in the middle of it one day.”

 

“Everyone could.”

 

They look at each other for a long time, gaze never breaking, both plagued by the exact same, achingly exhausting fear.

 

“I know.”

 


	5. peace

_If there must be trouble, let it be in my day, that my child may have peace._

**Thomas Paine**

Tom could feel the cold, empty side of the bed next to him before he properly realized that he was awake, and that the candle on Sybil’s bedside table was casting flickering rays of light across the dark room.

 

He sighed, eyes still swollen from sleep, arms and legs limp, subconsciousness threatening to pull him under again. Rolling onto his side, he craned his neck far enough to peak through the small gap between the dark green curtains and the wall, covered in yellow wallpaper, a filigree but equally unpleasant floral pattern lining its way down to the wooden floorboards.

 

The curtains had been meant for the kitchen, but when they had realized how close the edges would get to the stove, they had decided to put them up in the bedroom instead. The result was a small gap that the curtains could not cover. All that Tom could see was their neighbour’s rooftop, only vaguely distinguishable from the deep blue night sky in this moment.

 

What little bit Tom could see of the clock on his bedside table in the dim, flickering candlelight, it told him that it was very early in the morning, too early to get up, but too late to go back to sleep.

 

The empty side of the bed, sheets still ruffled, cushions propped up, made Tom feel restless, so he sat up slowly in the semi-darkness, stretching his tired arms.

 

His feet only slowly carried him out of the bedroom, and he was still fumbling with his dressing gown as he stepped into the much brighter lit sitting room. For a moment, his eyesight blurred, attempting to adjust to the change, but then everything cleared, and only a light prickling pain in his eyes remained.

 

“What are you doing up in the middle of the night?” he asked as Sybil looked up from the small table they had set against the wall. A few strands of wavy hair had loosened from her braid and now softly framed her face, the rings under her eyes dark from the lack of sleep.

 

“I woke up and knew I wouldn't go to sleep again,” she explained, adjusting the paper she had in front of her, “And it's nearly five already.”

 

Tom glanced at the bigger clock on the wall, realizing Sybil was right. They would have to get up soon anyway. Sometimes it still surprised him, the changes of the season, the lack of light in winter and the abundance in the summer, the switching of temperature and spirits alike.

 

“Were you feeling sick again?” he asked, glad that the need to tread on eggshells had fallen away the moment Sybil told him they were going to have a child. Until then, he had pretended not to notice her leaving the bed in the middle of the night, had pretended not to hear her in the small bathroom, had tried hard not to push her too hard to take care of herself. Now, every door between them was open for the truth to flood through, and to be completely honest with each other; no more need for veils to disguise the truth.

 

Sybil nodded, turning back towards her paper. Tom only now caught a glimpse of the blue pen she was twirling between her slender fingers.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked, curling his fingers around the back of the nearest chair to pull it closer to Sybil. Sitting down, Tom yawned, regretting now that he had insisted on finishing his notes for the article he was working on last night.

 

“I'm writing to my mother,” Sybil said calmly, and Tom looked down at the blue ink sinking into the paper, Sybil's hand steady, her handwriting so, _so_ delicate. It was one of the tell-tale reminders of where she was from, that she was truly a lady, that she was raised amongst aristocrats, money and jewels.

 

For a few minutes, the two of them remained quiet, and Tom's eyes followed the soft movements of the pen in Sybil's hand. Not reading, no, this was Sybil's letter to her mother, not him. But following the trail of the ink as it was soaked up by the pale sheet of paper.

 

“Will you tell her?” he asked, wondering out loud more than actually inquiring.

 

“Yes. I suppose, now that we want to tell your mother, it's only fair to tell my parents, as well,” Sybil replied, never looking up from her task, “I do want them to know. I really do. But only them, for now.”

 

“Not your sisters?”

 

“Not quite yet. We agreed to only tell your mother, so we're only going to tell my parents.”

 

Sybil's voice was unusually indifferent, and the movement of her fingers suddenly became stoic as opposed to their former soft flow. Tom knew that she tensed so easily whenever her parents became topic of their conversations, but this sudden shift confused him.

 

“You don't look very excited to tell them,” he said, careful not to twist his own words into something Sybil might misinterpret as criticism.

 

Putting down the thin pen, Sybil looked up properly for the first time in minutes, and Tom could see the exhaustion in her eyes as clear as the sun in the sky on a bright day in the summer. Not exhaustion from a lack of sleep, but exhaustion from this. From the constant unspoken fight against who she used to be and who her family wanted her to be.

 

“Why would I?” she asked, the slight edge of sadness in her voice causing a painful clench in Tom's chest. She should be happy about this, about sharing these news with her parents, to announce that she was expecting their first grandchild. Instead, she was sitting here in the dark, writing words he knew she had to fight for.

 

It was not the way he wanted her to feel.

 

“You know what they will think about it,” Sybil continued, anger and frustration mingling with the sadness seeping from her every word, “That our child is ruining my last chance to go back to my old life. It will be just one more thing that they never wanted.”

 

“But maybe they won't,” Tom struggled, not entirely believing his own words as he stood. Stepping behind Sybil, he rested his hands on her shoulders, beginning to gently knead the tense skin.

 

“Maybe,” Sybil whispered, her head leaning backwards until it rested against Tom's stomach.

 

.:.

 

“The cake will be fine if you start a day early, but you must not forget to get the eggs tomorrow. You won't get any the day before Christmas, unless you want to walk to the other end of the city,” Mrs Branson said so quickly that Sybil had some trouble following her mother-in-law as she leaned over the table to collect the empty plates.

 

Tom had pretty much invited them for dinner at his mother's house this night, eager to share the news before the small flat would be filled to the brim with people whom they would rather not tell about the baby just yet.

 

Christmas was only a few days away, and Sybil suddenly felt immensely grateful for the distraction that her pregnancy provided so unexpectedly. It was such a busy time of the year, but at the same time so serene and calm, the long darkness filled with endless hours to miss, regret and long.

 

“I can pick some up on the way home from work,” Tom suggested, and from the corner of her eye, Sybil could see him fidgeting around in his chair.

 

She wondered from time to time, how he had ever managed to make it into the drawing room the night they had announced their engagement to her family, how he had ever survived proposing to her that cold afternoon in York, how he had managed to stand up against her father.

 

Sybil clearly remembered how nervous he had been when he introduced her to his mother, when he took her to see his favourite places around the city, how fidgety he had been the day before their wedding. About certain things, he was so stubbornly sure, while the fear of loss and rejection drove him insane. He cared too much, invested himself too much, loved too much for his own good.

 

“I can manage, Tom,” she said softly, smiling as Tom looked up at her.

 

“I know,” he replied, and the two of them looked at each other for a short moment, coming to the inner conclusion that they had avoided the moment of truth long enough now. All through dinner, they had thrown stolen glances at each other, silently wondering if _now_ was the right time, only to let each moment pass as silently as it had appeared.

 

But when Sybil looked up to see her mother-in-law looking at the two of them with her eyebrow raised in suspicion, she knew the moment had come, and there was no more nervousness to lead them out of the inevitable.

 

“There's something we wanted to tell you, Ma,” Tom began, and he rose from his chair to wrap his fingers around Sybil's. She looked up at him for a moment, nodding supportingly as their glances met.

 

“So I thought,” Mrs Branson said almost casually, setting down the bowl she was still holding.

 

“Sybil is...,” Tom continued, his voice an odd mixture of excitement and a flood of emotions overwhelming him, “Well, we-”

 

“We are going to have a baby,” Sybil finished for him, squeezing his hand tightly. Neither of them really understood why they were so nervous. It was not fear that had made them hesitate. Maybe they were still too overwhelmed, too stunned, to really comprehend what was happening, and much less, to be confident enough to share it with others.

 

However, as soon as the words were spoken and the truth revealed, the veil of fear and tension fell off Sybil and Tom in a single smooth motion. A sound of delight, and Sybil found herself in an embrace so warm and tight that she could feel her lungs aching to breathe. She felt Tom's body bump gently into her side as his mother pulled him into her arms as well, the choking sound of happy tears filling the fluttering moments of silence between the ticking of the clock.

 

“Ma,” Tom mumbled into his mother's greying hair. It was in moments like these when Sybil felt so home, so utterly right and content with the choice she had made, that tears began to fill her own eyes.

 

“That is so wonderful,” Mrs Branson exclaimed as she released them from her vice grip, her voice choked, fingers quickly wiping away a stray tear, “How long have you known?”

 

“Only for a few days,” Tom replied, wrapping his arm around Sybil and gently pulling her back against his side.

 

Tom's mother eyed them for a long moment, and Sybil could clearly see the contentment, the accomplishment, and the sheer joy in her blue eyes.

 

“I am so proud of you. Both of you,” she whispered, reaching out to take Sybil and Tom's hand in each of her own, and in that precise moment, Sybil finally, entirely, with every bone in her body, felt part of this family, welcomed, accepted and loved.

 

“Have you told anyone else yet?”

 

“I wrote my mother this morning,” Sybil replied, letting herself fall back into the chair as the three family members, two generations, parted, “But we want to keep it quiet for a little longer.”

 

Tom's mother nodded understandingly, but Sybil could see the slight disappointment in her eyes. Tom had warned her beforehand, that his mother would be less than enthusiastic about not being able to share that her oldest son would finally become a father. The very last thing Sybil desired to do was disappoint her mother-in-law by restraining her to keeping a secret that was not hers, but for now, she simply did not feel ready to share her pregnancy with more people than necessary.

 

If the war had taught her one thing, it was that there were few things more painful than crushed hope, failed expectations and lost causes. None of those were experiences she wanted to re-live.

 

There would be a time to share and celebrate, but for now, it was a time to cherish and make plans.

 

“Are you feeling alright?”

 

“Tired,” Sybil answered, and she smiled at Tom reassuringly. He was the last person to ever believe when she tried to convince him that she was feeling just fine, happy and healthy. He raised his eyebrows, but the hint of a grin that stretched his lips made up for whatever doubt he might have had, “But I am starting to feel much better.”

 

“That's wonderful,” Mrs Branson replied, and just as she turned around to reach for the jar of biscuits on the mantelpiece, Sybil could see her wiping away a tear from the corner of her eye.

 

.:.

 

Christmas came and went in a blur of snow, storm, cold, the smell of food and pine, the laughter of children, and a warmth so constant and complete, that Sybil could barely make herself stop smiling contently.

 

However quiet and serene this time of the year might be, there seemed to be not a moment to rest, to dwell, or to wonder, and so Sybil was surprised to find herself sitting in front of Shinead's fireplace two days after Christmas Day, the tiny little baby the family had just welcomed cradled carefully and gently in her arms, and suddenly wondering about what her sisters would be doing right this very moment.

 

Somehow, now that the initial glow of her first Christmas away from home, her first Christmas as a wife, as part of this family, has died down a little, that flicker of longing in the back of Sybil's mind made itself known.

 

Her niece sleeping peacefully in her arms – so small and fragile, and Sybil could feel Tom's eyes glancing at her from the far end of the sofa – seemed to awaken something more inside of her than nervousness and excitement about the news they still had to share, about the second heart beating inside of her, the life growing steadily within her.

 

It was as if it suddenly dawned on her, that this was real, not a dream. That her family was across the sea, was celebrating without her, just like she was without them.

 

She did not want to miss this, this warmth, the closeness, the intimacy. Not for the world. But, tracing her fingertip gently along Nora's incredibly soft cheek and feeling the soft fluff of dark hair brush her skin, Sybil remembered the big tree, the endless lights shining like the night sky, Christmas dinner, spending hours with Mary and Edith leaving trails in the snow across the grounds.

 

A familiar pressure behind her eyes frightened Sybil, and she swallowed, leaning forward a little, as if to look at the baby in her arms more properly. Maybe it was the spirit, the lights illuminating the dark of the night and the laughter of a tightly knitted family surrounding her for the last few days. Maybe it was the knowledge that she was carrying on her own family line, that her mother would receive a letter any minute now, would have to find peace in the thought of becoming a grandmother soon. Maybe it was the lack of her sisters bantering and her grandmother's commenting.

 

Maybe it was one small, natural surge of homesickness, of sadness, of realization that this was her first Christmas away from home, that caused a single salty tear to trail down Sybil's cheek, flushed deeply from the warmth of the fireplace.

 

“She really likes you,” Shinead said with a broad smile as she passed by the fireplace, balancing a tray on one arm, and her son on the other. Sybil smiled, not looking up far enough to allow her sister-in-law to see the fire reflecting in the salty trail left behind by her tear.

 

Shinead's words distracted Sybil from the rare ache in her heart, and as she eyed her sleeping niece once more, skin so pale and soft, delicate, tiny fingers reaching into thin air, she knew. Nothing could ever replace her family. No love in the world could act as an imposter for generations of men and women that she had grown up alongside of, that had raised her, taught her, cared for her. There was no need to replace anything at all, and she realized that now.

 

She was starting her own, brand-new family, completely independent from anything that had come before. A new life, sleeping under the warmth of the baby cradled against her right now.

 

Her family was still there, in England, in her heart, and no mater how many difficulties there were to face, Sybil knew she would always be in theirs. Tom's family was still here, welcoming her, making her feel a part of them, celebrating, cherishing. By next year, she would be cradling her own child, her own son or daughter, and little Nora would make her first steps in front of the small Christmas tree.

 

A gentle pair of hands rested on her shoulders, thumbs pressing softly into her skin.

 

“Are you alright?” Tom whispered into her ear, his breath warm against the exposed skin of her neck.

 

She turned her head far enough for her eyes to meet those of her husband, and she smiled contently.

 

“Yes, I'm perfectly alright.”

 

“We can go home if you'd like.”

 

“Oh, no,” she whispered, looking back down at the baby in her arms, “I'd like to stay a little longer.”

 

.:.

 

Sybil giggled as she walked up the stairs, Tom's fingers deliberately pressing just that little bit too much into her side, and she knew that, if she turned around, she would be faced with that wide grin and mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

 

The hallway was completely, utterly dark, and how they managed not to fall up the stairs without the aid of their eyes, and caught up in their embrace, Sybil did not quite understand. The sound of her keys dangling against each other was muffled by her laughter, and Tom's heavy footsteps against the aching wooden stairs.

 

“If you won't me open the door, we'll still be here in the morning,” she complained, voice filled with mockery, barely able to keep the sound of her laughter down.

 

“Darling, it's already morning,” Tom reminded her smugly, and Sybil turned around in his arms as they reached the door.

 

“That is true,” she said, more quietly now, standing on her tip toes to softly press her lips against Tom's. For a short moment, the two of them stood in the dark, arms wrapped around each other, lips meeting, eyes falling closed.

 

“Let's get inside,” Tom murmured against Sybil's parted lips, his hands, however, more than reluctant to let her go.

 

Neither of them bothered with the lights, or the fire that would have warmed up their freezing flat, stray drops of water frozen around the edges of the windows, moonlight glowing through the few open curtains.

 

Sybil's lips were insistent against Tom's as her still gloved fingers began to fumble with the buttons of his thick coat.

 

“I'm sorry, you know,” Tom murmured, reaching down to help Sybil, his bare fingers gliding over hers before beginning to undo, much quicker and much more urgently than Sybil, his buttons.

 

“Sorry for what?” Sybil asked quietly, removing her gloves as she parted their lips and looked up into Tom's eyes, only vaguely visible in the dark.

 

“My mother,” Tom answered, reaching behind him to shut the door, and beginning to gently steer Sybil through the dark room towards their bedroom, “She overreacted. You shouldn't have had to see that.”

 

“That wasn't your fault,” she reassured him, nudging her nose against the warm skin of his neck.

 

When Sean had suddenly bolted out of his chair during dinner earlier, had mumbled about something that he needed to take care of urgently, and had rushed out of the flat, Tom's mother had lost whatever calm she had preserved around the young man. She had shouted after her nephew, most of which Sybil did not understand because it had been in Gaelic, and it had taken Tom and his brother Fionn a lot of effort to pull their mother away from the open window.

 

The evening had turned quiet after that, and Sybil had been reminded of her childhood, of standing by innocently and awkwardly while Mary or Edith had been told off. Caitlin had attempted to leave a few times, her husband's sudden departure and Mrs Branson's rage clearly making her feel unwelcome and uncomfortable, but Tom's sisters had insisted that she stayed, and eventually, Tom's mother had taken it upon herself to talk to Caitlin, and reassure her that she should stay.

 

Sybil sighed softly as her bare back sank into the cool fabric of the duvet, Tom's lips trailing down her neck. Her chest was rising and falling with each heavy breath she took, the fingers of one hand digging deeply into the fabric beneath her, as the other fumbled to find Tom's hand. As their fingers intertwined gently, feather-lightly brushing against each other, Sybil stretched her neck to give Tom more room.

 

“I do understand her,” she said huskily, a violent shiver rippling through her body as Tom's nose nudged against the skin behind her ear.

 

“How?” he whispered, the warmth of his breath dampening her skin as softly as a first glimpse of sunlight in the spring.

 

“He has gone too far,” Sybil responded, head dizzy, breaths heavy, and she wrapped her arms around Tom's neck like fingers lacing around the bannister on a boat's deck – eager, curious, “He _is_ going too far, and no one knows what he is really doing.”

 

Tom's response was muffled against her skin as his lips trailed a blazing path down her stomach, hands warming every inch of skin he could reach. Eventually, when Sybil found herself being rested on the soft cushion, her husband's fingertips gently brushing stray strands of hair behind her ear, she ceased to see the importance in his answer. Everything ceased to exist except the two of them, for this short moment.

 

“Don't ever make me worry that much about you,” she whispered, hand cupping Tom's cheek as her legs wrapped themselves tightly around his bare legs.

 

“I won't,” he replied, pressing himself against her a little more, nothing left in between them. The darkness around them seemed to fill them up, every sense heightened, every inch of skin that touch pickling like the burning heat radiating from a white hot flame.

 

Their lips met urgently, yet softly, both of them yearning for each other, neither of them willing to ever let go.

 

“Promise me,” Sybil whispered hoarsely, fingers suddenly in a rush to pull Tom even closer, her hips rising off the soft bed, desperate, impatient. Her voice might have been weak, exhausted from a night without sleep, but nothing about the intention behind the two simple words she had uttered was weak or fragile. She almost sounded angry, too determined for a mere plea.

 

She was not asking her husband to promise her his safety. In this moment, as the two of them joined together and their shared moan filled the silence of the small, dark room, she was _demanding_ it from him.

 

“I promise,” he murmured as he sat back, carefully, _so_ gently, pulling Sybil with him. She looked deeply into his eyes as his words faded into a groan, and her hands clung to his shoulders tightly.

 

When she leaned forward, touching her forehead to his, their understanding was sealed. The promise noted, never to be forgotten.

 

As the sun began to rise over the snow-covered rooftops outside their bedroom window, neither Sybil nor Tom felt compelled to break their hearts worrying about what this new year, 1920, might bring for them. Not now.

 

There would always be another moment to worry, and this, wrapped up in each other, fingers brushing over warm skin, was not the time.

 

.:.

 

Tom was still shivering when he shut the door to their flat behind him, pushing his flat palm hard against it as the wood resisted to fall into place.

 

“Is the snow letting up?,” Sybil asked before he had any chance to say a word, and he turned to see her sitting at the desk, most pins taken out of her hair, “It was awful when I walked home.”

 

The dark strands of hair that cascaded down the pale fabric of her blouse were seemingly melting down her back, soft and in gentle waves.

 

“Barely,” Tom answered, shrugging off his coat and leaning down to untie his shoes, “It might be quite an effort to make it to work on time tomorrow.”

 

“Then perhaps I should be glad that the light still isn't working, and I can not see a single thing outside,” Sybil said with a smile, waving her hand in the direction of the small window, the edges covered in kaleidoscope-like twisted ice-patterns. Where a street light usually illuminated the street below, and granted a view at falling snowflakes, a pitch-black darkness now took over, almost as if someone had hung up a velvety black veil in front of the thin glass.

 

“You could have looked out of the bedroom window,” Tom said as he stepped behind Sybil, resting his hands on her shoulders. The room was not as warm as he had hoped, but Sybil, as eager as she was to learn and to improve in all aspects of life that she had been shielded from for years, was not quite as gifted at starting a fire as she was as a nurse.

 

Sybil turned her head far enough to meet Tom's smile, and she lifted her arm to rest her hand on his.

 

“Why, when I have you to give me a full report?” she replied, playfully squeezing his hand.

 

“Certainly, Milady,” Tom chuckled, leaning forward to capture her laughter in a kiss, filled with the longing that their separate day at work had piled up minute by minute, hour by hour.

 

“What are you doing there?” he whispered as they parted, but Sybil would not have it that way, stretching her neck as far as possible to press her lips against his once more. The kiss was briefer, deeper, and when they finally parted entirely, both of their breathing was laboured.

 

“Mama send a letter, I just finished reading it before you came,” Sybil eventually answered, turning back towards the desk that was covered in envelopes and letters, blank sheets of paper and scattered pens and pencils.

 

Tom sensed Sybil's usual discomfort at any mention of her family, and he knew that in this particular matter, every fear and every doubt she had must be multiplied and heightened by her own nervous excitement.

 

“What is she saying?” he asked quietly, not moving his hands away from her shoulders, “Did she take it well?”

 

“Who knows, really?” Sybil asked absent-mindedly, and Tom wondered for a moment what she was talking about, “It is only a letter. But she says she is happy, and that she hasn't told anyone but Papa. Truthfully... She makes herself sound quite excited.”

 

Irritated by the cheerless tone of her voice, Tom rested his chin on top of Sybil's head.

 

“It is her first grandchild, Sybil,” he whispered, running his palms up and down Sybil's arms in a slow and steady motion, feeling her shiver from his touch.

 

“I know,” Sybil sighed, and Tom could feel how tired and exhausted she was from the way her entire body seemed to tense, “Still, I was not expecting... this.”

 

“What exactly?”

 

“She wants to visit,” Sybil answered almost bluntly, taking the delicate letter between her fingers, as if to prove to herself that her words were true, and not a mirage invented by any wishful thought she might have dared to think.

 

“Here?” Tom asked, almost immediately overwhelmed by images of Lord and Lady Grantham tiptoeing around their small flat, squeezing onto the ancient sofa and sipping tea out of the old and battered tea set his mother had given them.

 

“Yes. She writes that she wants to come over here, and that we are always welcome to come and stay with them.”

 

“We?”

 

“Yes,” Sybil confirmed, quietly and hesitantly, as if she did not trust her own voice, “She wrote _you and Tom_.”

 

For a moment, they were both silent, each following their own thoughts. Tom's hands found Sybil's, and he allowed his fingers to slip in between hers.

 

“It seems so sudden,” Sybil eventually murmured, delicately intertwining her fingers with Tom's, “Not a single one of their letters ever spoke about visiting, or travelling, or ever seeing each other again. And now she wants to come and stay with us, and wants us to stay at Downton.”

 

“But that is great, Sybil,” Tom said, still confused about the oxymoron of Sybil's reaction to her mother's letter.

 

She only nodded now, tracing along Tom's fingers with her own, incredibly soft, cool and gentle.

 

“Then why do you look so unhappy?” Tom asked, unable to find a solution by himself, without spelling out the question that was running though his mind mercilessly.

 

“I'm not unhappy,” his wife answered quietly, and, despite the unconvincing echo of her voice, he believed her, “I am glad that she took this step. I just... It feels as if it is not so much about me, or us.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Sybil edged backwards a little, causing Tom to stand up straight again, their fingers parting, but Tom's hands still hovering above her arms. She turned to look at him wearily, sighing.

 

“She wants to be part of her grandchild's life, and I respect that. But she was willing to let her own child go.”

 

Tom felt his chest contract at Sybil's words, and a familiar surge of guilt washed over him. Guilt, that he had pushed her to make her choice before she truly understood the consequences.

 

“She never did that, Sybil, you know that,” he whispered, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers. His heart felt heavy, and he closed his eyes in defeat.

 

“What does it matter if she did or not when it felt that way to me?”

 

Sybil's words sounded as heavy as Tom's heart felt, and he gently brushed his lips against her cheekbone, the soft skin flushing almost immediately.

 

“Maybe it just took her some time,” he said, his attempt to sound encouraging and comforting failing masterfully as the line of thought brought him back to what had troubled his mind all day at work, “Time to come to terms with your decision. This is a good thing, Sybil. Truly the best response I could have hoped for.”

 

His voice changed as the last words slipped past his lips. He sounded more serious, almost mysterious, and Sybil leaned back to look at him curiously.

 

“You?”

 

He sighed, taking a step back, ending their embrace as he stepped to the window, staring out into the unrevealing darkness.

 

“Did you hear about the shooting down in Thurles?” he asked, seeing Sybil putting the letter away from his peripheral vision.

 

“I did,” she answered with a seriousness to her voice that told him she knew something more than these simple – not _simple_ , but plain – news was coming, “Some of the other nurses were talking about it. One of them has family down there, and was in quite a fright.”

 

“Rightly so,” Tom commented, realizing quickly how sharp his voice had sounded, “But as far as we hear, the Constable was the only one who died.”

 

“Weren't there more attacks?” Sybil asked, still rummaging through the many papers on the desk. Somehow, as tidy as they both were, they could not manage to keep the desk clean and organized.

 

“On some property, yes,” he confirmed, his mind filling with flames, gunshots and breaking glass, “Sybil...”

 

Her rummaging stopped as soon as his heavy whisper faded into a worry-loaded sigh.

 

“What's the matter, Tom?”

 

Taking a last look at the barely recognizable rooftops outside, Tom turned to face his wife, his face set in stone.

 

“Sybil, I think you should visit your family. For a while.”

 

Sybil's forehead wrinkled in confusion, and Tom prepared for the response he was expecting. Denial, rejection and, something she was hardly ever capable of, a certain lack of compassion.

 

“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked, folding her hands on top of the dark blue fabric covering her lap, “Mama only just send the letter, and I can work for at least one more month, why would I travel all the way to England now?”

 

“It's not safe for you here,” he stated simply. If there was one thing their relationship was based on mutually, it was honesty, and he would not begin to make up false pretences as to why he would rather see her back in England, than here by his side.

 

“It hasn't been safe for me ever since we came here, Tom.”

 

“It's different now,” he said, remembering how much more he knew about what was happening outside their home than Sybil did, “It's getting worse.”

 

“What are you trying to say?”

 

For a moment, he was silent, simply looking at the tense and expectant expression on his wife's face.

 

“I can't work, Sybil,” he finally confessed, needing to finally say what his mind could no longer take, “I can't concentrate. All I do is worry that something might happen to you, that you run into someone who is less accepting than my family and your colleagues, someone who... Or that you get caught up in something, that you are in the wrong place at the wrong time. I should be keeping you safe, even more so now than ever. And as long as you are here, I can not do that.”

 

He could see the effect his words were having on Sybil, just barely, in the way her eyes flickered towards the floor and her lips pursed _so_ very slightly. In moments like these, he cursed the fact that she was brought up to be a mask, a plain canvas that only projected emotions when called for.

 

She had always been different than that, around him, around many people. However, the fact that she recoiled from the emotional restraint of her upbringing did not mean that she was not masterfully capable of it. Right now, trying to take her stand and deny Tom's request, it was her way of fighting for her cause to set up the mask she knew how to put up so well.

 

“So, you want me to move back to Downton?” she asked, making it sound more like a simple fact, as if they were talking about the weather once more.

 

“It is the reasonable thing to do, Sybil.”

 

“I do not think so at all. Tom, we left, and we moved away, here, after all this time that you wanted me. We are _finally_ here, together, married, we both have work, and we are going to have a family of our own soon. We have everything we wanted. I will not give that up.”

 

“I am not asking you to,” he stated, not wanting her to believe he was willing to throw everything they had built together away easily, “This won't last forever. Change will come, and things will get sorted out. Only for now, I do not want you caught up in the midst of it all. This is not your war, Sybil, and I will not let you become a victim of it.”

 

“This is just what they want, Tom,” Sybil said, her voice becoming louder with each word as she stood up from the chair, “Exactly what they predicted would happen. That I made a foolish decision, that I did not think things trough properly, that I ran off naively without thinking about the consequences. That I am still the little girl with the ribbons in her hair, who can not handle the world outside of Downton. How can you even ask me to go back, Tom? To make everything they predicted come true?”

 

He looked at her for a moment, feeling almost intimidated by the sheer force in her voice, a battle cry to protect the freedom and independence she had fought for for so long. Standing there, she looked so strong, as if all the waves of trouble would simply be washed away, while her fragile hands waved in frustration and anger.

 

“This is not easy for me, either,” he reassured her, “But you must understand that I want to keep you and our baby safe, and you simply can't be safe here. Not now.”

 

His voice was too calm, too filled with fear, aching with worry. Unlike Sybil, he had no means to fight, not on this.

 

She took a step forward, slowly closing the gap that separated them , that gave room for words they might later regret.

 

“We could move away, out into the country,” she suggested, making an effort to forget how offended she was by his proposition, “Get away from the big city.”

 

“Thurles is not a big city, Sybil,” Tom said, turning his head back to watch the pitch-black darkness, always aware, always _waiting_ , “It doesn't matter in the end.”

 

He knew that her resolve had crumbled entirely when she took a step back again, standing as tall as she could.

 

“I will not go back to England,” she said firmly, her voice filled to the brim with the despite she felt, “To see every single member of my family look at me righteously and smugly because they believe they were right, when truly, they were _so_ very wrong about every single decision I have made in the last few years. You can _not_ ask me to do that. I will not go back, and especially not without you. After all this time, you made me fall in love with you, made me realize how much I've loved you all along, you do _not_ get to push me away.”

 

By now she was shouting, and Tom knew that Mrs Gallagher downstairscould hear every single one of Sybil's words. He turned to look at his wife, every fibre of his being burning with the pain of having to ask this of her, of feeling the need to inflict this pain and humiliation on her, all in order to keep her safe.

 

When he saw her eyes shining with gathered tears of anger and frustration, he knew he simply could not ask anything like this of her. He wanted to, so badly. Everything necessary to keep her and their unborn child safe, he would do, without hesitation, in the blink of an eye. But ask it of her, he simply could not do. It was not his right, not his choice to make.

 

“I will never push you away, Sybil,” he whispered, taking two long steps towards her, sighing as she fell into his open arms, “Never. I promised. Every waking moment. I just want you to be happy, and safe. And if being around me here makes that impossible, I have to try to keep my promise nonetheless.”

 

Sybil rested her head against his chest, wrapping her arms tightly around his chest. The feeling of her warm body pressed against his, enveloped in his arms, he felt even more helpless, knowing that this could not keep her safe.

 

“I don't want to go,” she murmured against his shirt, and he nodded, letting in eyes fall closed, breathing slowly alongside her.

 

“I know.”

 

“I won't,” she whispered more firmly, and Tom knew she had made her decision. This was it.

 

“Alright.”


	6. their own way

_Happy families are all alike. Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way._

**Leo Tolstoy**

Sybil sighed in frustration, fingers clasping tightly around the edge of the duvet to pull it higher up her shivering body. She felt as if every pore on her body had turned into a goose bump, almost searingly painful as the thick fabric brushed past it. Not even the warmth of Tom's body, pressed tightly against her back, and his arms wrapped protectively around her middle, could ease the cold of this freezing night.

 

This merciless cold that managed to keep her awake long into the dark and lonely hours of the night was one of those aspects of her new life, that Sybil found particularly hard to grow accustomed to. She wondered often, how this cold was different from that which seeped into her bones during a winter walk back in Yorkshire. It hurt just as much, was just as merciless.

 

However, back at Downton, the cold had known an enemy, the warmth of a lit fireplace and thick duvets that had created a heat as intense as that of a summer's day. There had been no cold nights, no freezing limbs, no numb fingers trembling, clenching into fists and rubbing along goose-bump speckled arms.

 

Sleep would simply not come as the cold took over Sybil's mind, pointing out every inch of her body that was aching. She sighed again, barely on her own accord, a long and tiring day at work having drained all the energy out of her. Her hands found Tom's forearm under the duvet, resting gently but heavily against her stomach, and she buried her numb fingers in between the weight of his arm and the soft swell of her belly. It did not help much to warm her, but it did make her feel more comfortable, made her feel more at ease knowing they sheltered their unborn child from the cold together.

 

In these moments, cold and aching, wandering on the blurry edges between falling asleep and being wide awake, Sybil felt as if all her worries came crushing down on her like an avalanche. A cold blow, unexpected but anticipated all the same.

 

During the next winter, her own freezing skin would be of no more importance to Sybil, to them. The single most important thing would be to keep their child warm, safe and protected, shielded from the cold, from any danger that came creeping in the night.

 

Feeling her eyelids burn with the utter exhaustion of trying so hard to find rest, Sybil sighed once more, a repetitively nerveless mantra that served as her vain lullaby.

 

From one moment to the other, sudden and unexpected, the lullaby was ended, and Sybil's eyes shot open wide. Her heart was beating furiously in excitement and surprise, and she pressed her cold palm a little more urgently against the swell of her belly.

 

Surely that could not be. No. She was sure of it. It had been so fleeting, so momentarily, maybe it had been a dream, an illusion her tired mind had created on the verge of falling asleep, like the sensation of falling, when in truth, you are resting peacefully.

 

Sybil closed her eyes again, determined and entirely on edge now, listening to the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears and the soft rush of her breathing, paying close attention to all the signs her body hinted at to prove it was alive.

 

Barely a minute passed before Sybil felt it again, just as brief and just as fluttering, but this time, she was sure. Turning around in their embrace, Sybil rested her hand on Tom's shoulder, shaking his sleeping body as strongly as she could manage.

 

“Tom! Tom, wake up,” she said, not loudly for her face was already so very close to him. She smiled as his eyebrows twitched and he let out a disapproving groan, moving to turn onto his other side.

 

“Tom!” she repeated a little louder this time, leaning more of her weight against him.

 

The shift finally woke Tom, and his eyes shot open, looking frantically around in the dark.

 

“What is it?” he asked as he recognized Sybil leaning over him, “Is everything all right?”

 

“The baby, I felt the baby move, Tom,” Sybil explained enthusiastically, supporting her weight on her elbow as she pressed the palm of Tom's hand against her belly.

 

“What?” Tom asked, still under the influence of sleep, eyes heavy as he shuffled in their bed to find a more comfortable position.

 

“I felt the baby, Tom.”

 

Maybe it were not her exact words that finally made Tom understand, but the wide smile on Sybil's lightened up face.

 

“You did?” he asked, eyes flickering down to their joined hands resting on her belly, Sybil's fingers slipping in between his.

 

Sybil nodded, following his gaze downwards. The sight of their hands sheltering her belly so gently was, in this hour of night and excitement, almost overwhelming, and Sybil could feel her eyes sting with with the gathering of joyful tears.

 

“There,” she whispered as she felt the odd, feather-light flutter again, and she pressed her fingers a little more intensely against Tom's.

 

“I can't feel anything,” Tom said quietly, the disappointment more than evident in his voice.

 

Sybil looked up at him, his eyes clouded, and the corners of his mouth a perfect reflection of the doleful sound behind his words.

 

“Maybe it is too early,” Sybil suggested, her voice low now as well, the darkness taking over her mind again, reminding her bluntly of the late hour, “I could barely feel it myself.”

 

Tom was quiet for a moment, still gazing somewhat dreamily down at their hands, their wedding bands reflecting what little moonlight fought its way through the gap between the curtains.

 

“How did it feel?”

 

“It was,” Sybil began, suddenly at a loss for words to describe what she had just felt. That had been her child. Her son or her daughter, moving, actually _living_ , inside of her, maybe just as restless as she was. Maybe restless _because_ she was restless. What if their baby was cold? Tired? Terribly and utterly lonely?

 

“A flutter,” she whispered, brushing her fingertips along the rise and fall of Tom's knuckles, “It was only a flutter, really.”

 

“A flutter,” Tom repeated quietly, and Sybil's heart ached a little at the longing in his voice. Maybe she should not have woken him up. Maybe it had been her moment, something she had no power to share with him.

 

However, when she looked up, she could see a faint, chaste smile on Tom's face. She understood. This, their baby, their family, it was real. It was becoming more and more real with every day that passed, with every little sign that there was a life growing inside of her. Even though he could not feel what she felt yet, did not have the physical connection to their son or daughter, her words, her re-telling of what she was able to feel, made things real for him.

 

“I'll tell the people at the hospital tomorrow,” Sybil whispered, grasping Tom's hand more tightly.

 

He simply nodded, and they both understood their silent agreement, letting the impact of this short, slightly unjust moment wash over them.

 

This was real, and it was time.

 

.:.

 

Sybil rubbed her blood-coated hands feverishly against the pristinely white cloth she was clinging to, not looking down at the innocent material soaking up the crimson liquid. Instead, her eyes filtered through the crowd of grey and white uniforms that occupied the hallway.

 

“Excuse me,” she muttered as she pushed past an older nurse, holding her hands up to avoid ruining someone else's uniform. She could still clearly hear the young man's scream echoing in her ears, could sill feel his cold hands clinging to her arms as if she were the only thing still connecting him to the world of the living, while the life was slowly leaving his blue eyes.

 

His warm blood still coating her hands and apron, while his torn apart heart had failed to keep beating. He was not the first man Sybil had to watch slip away, and in all likelihood, he would not be the last. It lost its impact after a while, the utter shock, the disturbance, the blame.

 

She could still recall the first man she had been with when he died, coughing blood all over her, screaming in utter agony. After he had finally been released of his pain, Sybil had rushed outside of the small hospital, into the small and narrow alleyway that was nestled quietly into the space between the next-door building. She had not been able to stop the tears or violent sobs, had wiped her bloody hands against the coarse brick, desperate to erase the memory of what had happened.

 

Now, it was different. It never lost its sadness. Never. Every single face was burned into her memory with searing hot pain. But she was calmer, almost indifferent. It made her terribly, utterly sad sometimes, the fact that those deaths did not affect her more than they used to. With time, however, she had come to realize that letting them too close to her heart and soul would only lead to her own misery. They were strangers, and their deaths without a doubt sad and uncalled for. But they _were_ strangers.

 

The cold water that washed her hands clean made almost no difference to the freezing chill that was allowed into the wash room by the open window, and Sybil's fingers trembled as she undid the tie that held her apron together.

 

“Better dry your hands, or they'll freeze into a couple of sticks,” Edna's voice suddenly invaded the silence of the room, and Sybil turned to see her colleague standing in the door, a stack of fresh towels in her arms.

 

“Probably,” Sybil chuckled. She dropped her apron onto the pile of laundry.

 

“I've had so many people coming in today because they slipped on that bloody ice, and it's only ten in the morning,” Edna said with a sigh, leaning against the white door frame. Sybil nodded affirmatively as she picked a clean apron from the heavy drawer, and looked over to Edna.

 

“Do you have a minute?” she asked, shivering as her cold fingers brushed her skin as she tied the apron around her neck.

 

“Of course,” Edna answered, stepping fully into the cold room.

 

Sybil swallowed, suddenly feeling terribly nervous. “There is something I wanted you to know before I tell anyone else.”

 

“Heavens,” Edna said with an exaggerated grin on her face, “That sounds mighty important.”

 

“It is, actually,” Sybil replied, looking down at her now clean hands and apron. For a moment, she hesitated. Was this really the time? Maybe she could wait for another week or two. Maybe it was too early. Was she really ready?

 

“You're not ill, are you?” Edna asked before Sybil had a chance to properly make up her mind, “Cause I haven't missed that you slipped away quite often lately.”

 

“No, I'm not ill,” Sybil reassured her, “Not to worry.”

 

Edna looked at her expectantly, awaiting an explanation, while Sybil took a deep breath. “I'm pregnant.”

 

“Really?” Edna exclaimed rather loudly, dropping the stack of towels onto an empty counter by the door. When Sybil nodded, a relieved smile on her face, Edna leaped forward enthusiastically, giving her a short, but tight hug, “Oh, Sybil, that's wonderful news. How long have you known?”

 

“A little while,” Sybil said as the two women parted, and she was suddenly overly sure that it had been the right decision to stop the secrecy. In this very moment, she was convinced she could call Edna not only her colleague, but a friend, “I just didn't want to announce it when I could still work.”

 

“Of course,” Edna said, nodding slightly, “How are you feeling?”

 

“Very well, thank you. Much better than a few months ago.”

 

Placing the stack of towels back in her arms, Edna smiled. “When are you due?”

 

“Around June.”

 

“That's nice, you won't have to endure the summer heat.”

 

“It is hard to imagine heat at the moment,” Sybil laughed, the white mist forming in front of her lips as she spoke only emphasising the meaning behind her words.

 

“Very true,” Edna agreed with a chuckle, but the mood seemed to shift swiftly as she spoke again, “Are you going to tell Collins today?”

 

“After my shift is over, yes,” Sybil confirmed, kneading her freezing fingers.

 

“She's a decent woman,” Edna said, reaching her hand out to rest it on Sybil's shoulder, “She'll let you come back.”

 

Sybil nodded, a weary smile of gratefulness on her lips. She was glad that Edna understood her unspoken worries, and hoped that her words of encouragement would turn out to be the truth.

 

“If I can find a way to come back,” she muttered, more to herself than Edna. She was not really up for a discussion about how to raise a child and continue her work here at the hospital, but the thought was so omni-present on her mind that it became more and more difficult to keep it in. Especially now that she was to really face the conflict.

 

“I'm so happy for you,” Edna said with a smile, giving Sybil's shoulder a supportive squeeze before she turned and left the wash room, returning to the rush and bustle that Sybil knew she would miss dearly in a few hours time.

 

-

 

Shivering from head to toe like a leaf in the autumn rush of wind, Tom hurried into their small flat, shutting the door behind him a little too eagerly. The wood creaked under the pressure, and Tom cursed quietly under his breath, pulling off his hat. His fingers felt numb as he placed the bundle of biscuits, wrapped in a delicately woven pink handkerchief, onto the small table by the door. He wondered briefly where Mrs Gallagher had gotten such a sophisticated piece from. It seemed much more like something Sybil might have owned, something Lady Mary would have pulled out of her small handbag while she sat comfortably in the back seat of the car.

 

Turning around to unbutton his clammy coat, Tom saw Sybil sitting immobile on the sofa, the low and piteous flames burning in the fireplace illuminating her pale face.

 

“Sybil? Are you alright?” he asked, quickly discarding his coat, and not bothering to take off his soaked shoes as he walked over to kneel in front of his wife, “Sybil?”

 

“I told Nurse Collins,” she answered quietly, looking down at him wearily.

 

“That was your plan, wasn't it?” he asked, taking her cold, delicate hands in his. He remembered the night before so clearly, although he had only barely been awake. The thought of their child moving under Sybil's skin had shaken him awake more than his mother storming into his room every single morning when he was a young boy ever could. Imagining their son or daughter properly for the first time, as a moving, living, breathing person rather than a vague idea and prospect, had shaken his soul awake.

 

The disappointment he had felt was just as evident and clear in his memory, however. Disappointment that it had been a moment for Sybil alone, an experience he was not yet able to share.

 

“It was,” she finally confirmed, her voice a little shaky, almost as if she was stumbling down a rocky path to find her words.

 

“What happened?” Tom asked, worried about the distance in her eyes, and the way her hands trembled in his grasp.

 

“Nothing,” she answered plainly, sighing, “Nothing unexpected. She sent me home, naturally. Congratulated. And she said that I am highly valued and that I would be more than welcome to return in due time.”

 

Her words sounded oddly monotone, as if she had repeated them over and over in her head, barely the hint of an emotional response to them hidden in between each syllable.

 

“That is good, isn't it?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

Tom sighed, and, just as he began to feel a prickling sensation burning through his tired legs, he rose to sit down next to Sybil. His hand reached out to rest against her cheek, and he gently ran his thumb along the delicate line of her cheekbone.

 

“What is the matter, Sybil?”

 

“Only...,” she began quietly, turning towards him, “I just realized that I won't be going back to work tomorrow morning. Tom, what am I...,” her words were ended by a gut-wrenching sob, and while Tom's heart still contracted with agony at the sound, he already found Sybil wrapped up in his arms, their legs bumping into each other as she held onto him, fingers digging deeply into his shoulder.

 

He felt as helpless as he had months and months ago, when she had sat next to him on the train leaving from Downton, literally leaving everything that passed behind, and the pain of saying goodbye had been so clear on her face. Back then, all he had been able to do was hold her hand, and hope that her pain would pass, that the excitement and promises of the future were enough to wash away the ache of leaving behind her past.

 

In this moment, his hands soothingly running along the ridges of her spine, the smooth material of her blouse catching onto his coarse skin, he felt just as useless. What was there in the world that he could do to make her feel better?

 

His lips brushed against her temple, and he began to gently, almost unnoticeable, began to sway her in his arms. It was a vague memory of his childhood, as blurry as the trees passing by when he drove a car – his mother gently swaying his baby sisters in her arms when they cried, whispering quiet words and colourful stories to them, stories that were so full of wonder that they made the world around them seem just that _little_ bit brighter.

 

Sybil was no child, however, and he knew so well that, no matter how big her dreams, _their_ dreams, were, that she understood the world much better than other people gave her credit for. She understood its twisted ways, and knew what a dark place it could be, outside of the golden walls she had grown up sheltered with.

 

“It will be alright, Sybil,” he whispered, feeling Sybil calm down in his arms, “It won't be long before the baby is born, and then we can make plans.”

 

Sybil parted from their embrace far enough to tilt her head, her red eyes glistening with tears. Her fingers were still unwilling to let go, while the force with which they clung to Tom's shoulders slowly softened.

 

“But what until then, Tom?” she asked huskily, a tear drop running over her parted lips, “What am I supposed to do until the baby is born but sit here and wait?”

 

He knew he was only fairly capable of understanding her fear. Not a day in his life had passed without anything to do, without work to tire him out, without worries to break his mind, without hunger to keep him awake. For Sybil, this was no simple fear of boredom, but a fear of falling back into a pattern she had, for so long, longed to break out of.

 

Tom understood that she needed a purpose. After all, he had seen her blossom into the woman that she was now, all along the lines of purposes, of goals and ambitions, big dreams that might never come true, not for either of them, not in their lifetime.

 

“We will have to move, and get everything ready in time for the baby,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers, “We will find something for you to do, something that makes you content.”

 

“I got too used to working, Tom. To doing something meaningful that wears me out. I can not go back to boredom wearing me out every single day,” Sybil whispered, the echo of her tears still clinging to her words.

 

“I know, darling. I know.”

 

-

 

Sybil's eyes shot open, her heartbeat racing so furiously in her chest that she could hear each thump as loudly as a drum in her ears. Her breathing was laboured, short and shallow breaths such a polar opposite to Tom's quiet, even breathing next to her.

 

Helplessly, she could feel the violent, dark and twisted imagery of her dream slipping through her fingers, escaping the leaks in her memory that she wished she could control. Her brain ached under the pressure of holding on to what it had conjured only a moment ago, but it was fleeing too fast for Sybil to grasp.

 

All that remained of her nightmare was the cold sweat covering her neck, and the subtle fear that crept into her every pore.

 

Shivering as she realized that her bare legs had escaped the warmth of the duvet, she pushed the thick material off her body entirely. As the rush of cold washed over her, Sybil took a deep breath to calm herself. In her mind, she told herself over and over that it had only been a dream, and that, whatever had taken place, whatever mirage her mind had created, was nothing but that. Not real.

 

Slowly sitting up, Sybil tried to remember the last time she had had such a vivid nightmare, for vivid it must have been. Her fingers wiped across the cool sweat that covered her neck beneath her thick braid, and as she rested her palm flatly on her chest, she could still feel her heart pounding restlessly beneath her skin.

 

No memories would come, none beyond childhood nights spent creeping through the dark corridors of Downton and crawling quietly into Mary's bed.

 

Sybil slowly pushed herself out of bed, the bare soles of her feet digging into the itchy green rug. Her mind still trying to uncover any debris of memory of what had awoken her, she walked calmly over to the window, careful not to bump into her dressing table in the dark.

 

Resting her head against the wall, Sybil reached out, her fingers carefully moving the curtain aside just enough for her to get a view outside, without disturbing Tom's sleep. Her free hand came to rest on the swell of her belly as her eyes wandered across the star-speckled, crystal-clear night sky.

 

Although she still could not remember, something inside of her, some instinctual knowledge, made her feel painfully convinced what the nightmare that had ripped her out of her sleep so brutally had been centred on. Her child, sleeping now under the faint warmth of her palm, and all the worries that circled around him or her. What world would their child be born into? What world would it grow up in? Would they be able to protect their son or daughter? Was she ready to be a mother? Did she trust Tom to be a father? Was this life the one she wanted for the person she would soon bring into this world?

 

The moon stood out incredibly brightly against the almost black sky, and Sybil tilted her head a little, remembering a full moon above fields of green.

 

She knew there were no answers for all the questions that plagued her, no guidance and no one to take her hand and lead her down this unknown, rocky path. There was only her son or daughter, waiting for her at the end of road.

 

“We will manage, don't you think so?” Sybil whispered, looking down at her palm resting on the swell of her belly, covered lightly in the thin material of her white nightdress, “We will be just fine.”

 

.:.

 

“Tom!” Sybil called from the living room, her voice raised and on edge, and Tom dropped the soaked cloth back into the basin with cold water. Rushing out of the small bathroom, hands, arms and chest wet and freezing in the cold, he stumbled into the living room.

 

“What is it?” he asked, seeing Sybil sitting at their desk, a letter in her hands. His heartbeat calmed down the second he saw the smile on her face, and his eyes flickered to her delicate fingers holding a thin sheet of paper, her gloves folded neatly on her lap.

 

He always seemed to be the last one to be finished and ready to leave, and it had become quite a joy for Sybil to tease him about it.

 

“Mary wrote,” she explained, looking up from the letter she was holding to smile at Tom, apparently not noticing his state of undress, “She and cousin Matthew are engaged.”

 

“Wait, wasn't she going to marry Carlisle?” Tom asked, wiping his wet hands against his trousers.

 

“Thank God she is not,” Sybil exclaimed, putting the letter down, “You met him. I never understood what she saw in him in the first place.”

 

“A distraction? Money?” Tom asked, more or less wondering. He had never thought much about it, that had been Lady Mary's trouble and not his, and, no matter how unpleasant Sir Richard's company had been, he had had no reason to have any negative feelings towards him.

 

“Probably,” Sybil agreed quietly, and Tom shook his head so very slightly that she never noticed. It was one of the many moments in which he saw no resemblance between Sybil and her eldest sister, a moment in which they seemed to have nothing in common but a reluctant understanding for each other's differences. “Oh, this is wonderful.”

 

“I never thought that day would come, not after everything that happened,” Tom confessed, taking a few more steps into the living room, seeing Sybil's bag, coat and hat neatly placed on the armrest of the sofa. Looking down at himself, Tom knew he would probably be at the receiving end of his wife's teasing before they left.

 

“Neither did I,” Sybil agreed, and the smile on her face faded ever so slightly, like mist chillingly covering the city and fields on a cool spring morning.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“I am,” Sybil breathed after a short pause, her eyes unfocussed, lost in thought, “I'm happy.”

 

Tom had a feeling that he knew what this was about – her eldest sister's engagement, the happy news to be shared with family and friends. He vividly recalled how utterly lost and lonely he had felt whenever he had received letters from home bearing such news. Engagements, weddings, the births of his nieces and nephews. All the while, he had been so cruelly far away, unable to share the joy, to cherish it with his family. He understood how Sybil felt. The happy news truly an agony in disguise, a merciless reminder of how far away from her childhood home she really was.

 

“Do they have a date yet?” he asked, knowing better than to push Sybil into talking about what he knew she refused to accept as homesickness.

 

“Not a set date, but Mary writes that they are aiming at April,” Sybil answered, skilfully shaking all doubt and hesitation off her voice, “She asked us to come.”

 

“That's great, Sybil.”

 

She looked at him with a foreign sense of mistrust, her eyes drilling into his soul. It was the kind of look his mother used to give him whenever he came home late with another elaborate excuse, the look she gave him when he acted as if his father's death had been simply another thing to happen to them, the look he had believed only a mother could give.

 

“Do you want to go?” Sybil asked, her hands coming to rest against the skirt across her lap, fingertips toying nervously with her gloves.

 

“If they want me there, I'll go,” Tom answered truthfully, although he could not deny to himself that the thought of returning to Downton send shivers of unease down his spine. To imagine the lukewarm welcome he was sure to receive, or the looseness of his belonging. Where did he belong there, really? In a shared bedroom with Sybil? High ceilings and ancient walls and filled to the brim with treasures? Or in the servants quarter, maybe his old cottage? Down in the servant's hall for stew, or misplaced around the dining room table with Sybil's family?

 

He had no more place at Downton. He was not a servant there any more, but he knew he could never belong on the glittery and shiny side of the green door he had so rarely passed.

 

“Only, I don't want things to be horribly uncomfortable for you,” Sybil said, and Tom could not help but smile.

 

“I'll manage,” he reassured her, walking over to her to rest his hands on her shoulders, “Do you think you'll be able to travel in April?”

 

“I suppose we'll have to wait and see. I do want to go, very much so. I'm so happy for them.”

 

“So am I,” Tom murmured, nuzzling his nose against Sybil's temple. Although the prospect of spending the evening with a large part of his family, and his mother's food was more than promising, and definitely enough to spur his slow efforts of getting ready on, the soft smell that radiated from Sybil's neck was tempting him to throw the invitation into the stormy wind.

 

“I think it's time to tell them. Mary and Edith,” Sybil said, leaning into Tom's touch, her hand coming to rest on his bare arm, “I'll write to them right away. And granny. She'll probably come running here if she doesn't hear from me personally.”

 

Tom chuckled, the idea of the Dowager Countess bursting into their small sitting room with her hat and stick both unsettling and humouring. Sybil turned her head, and the last glimpse Tom got to see of her before his eyes fell shut and her soft lips met his, was the genuine, almost cheeky smile on her face.

 

“You're all wet,” she murmured against his lips, and Tom leaned further into her, closing the hair of space between them before her voice had faded into a soft sigh, their lips brushing against each other once more. His hand came to rest against her neck, gently pulling her towards him.

 

“That happens when you scare the life out of me while I'm washing myself,” he whispered in between the soft pressed and pushes of their lips, finally parting. His forehead came to rest against hers, and he shivered as her fingertips trailed gently down his arm.

 

“Go finish then,” Sybil said reluctantly, her breath damp against his flushed skin, “Or I'll tell your mother that it's your fault we're late.”

 

Tom chuckled again, casting Sybil a mocking fearful expression as he stepped back and made his way back to the cold bathroom.

 

.:.

 

Perhaps, in retrospect, there had been too much happiness and joy for their small, private world to handle. Sybil could recall happy moments in her life, periods of smiles and the light flutter in her chest caused by excitement and contentment. Moments shattered violently, brutally, suddenly by pain and heartbreak, by grief hitting like an unstoppable force of nature.

 

The calm and quiet, perfectly ordered world she had spent her childhood days living alongside with – shattered and broken into ashen debris of what it had been when James and Patrick were taken by the icy sea.

 

Her own process of growing, of discovering the world beyond the ancient walls of Downton, the horizon willing to be discovered inside her own mind, a sunny day and laced gloves wrapped up in in warm, strong grasp – put on hold, declared unimportant and foolish as the war took its destructive path across the world.

 

Peace finally sinking into everyone's conscience, her future bright and promising, lips urgent against hers in the luminous light of the garage, not the only nuptials shining in the future like beacon lights of hope – all covered by a dark shadow when poor Lavinia passed, much too soon, much too unjustly.

 

Perhaps this was the price to pay for happiness. Grief and heartbreak to weigh out joy. Maybe pain kept the world in balance. Maybe, as their world fell apart, someone else's lit up in happiness, in smiles and in embraces.

 

It was an encouraging thought, and Sybil held on to it like the last straw keeping her settled in this world. If someone else could still find happiness, no matter how profound and deep the heartache was that consumed her, the world could not be such a bad place, after all.

 

.

 

Sybil would never forget how whole, how part of the family she had felt the day they had told Tom's mother that they were expecting. It was a memory so warm and filled to the brink with joy, that Sybil kept it as close to her heart as she could, for it lightened up those scattered moments in which the realization dawned on her that her life here was still very new, very fresh. That there were still so many things she needed to learn, so many people she wished to be accepted by.

 

Not even in her most wishful dreams could she have imagined the shrieks of surprise, the broad smiles, the embraces she cherished and the hands she shook, the encouraging words and congratulations, the complete _welcome_ she received the moment they announced her pregnancy to Tom's family.

 

It had been almost too much, close to an amount of uncomfortable joy, too much to handle. For the first few shocked, surprised, utterly overwhelmed moments, Sybil had longed to take the words back, to simply keep the arrival of their first child their little secret.

 

However, the moment Siobhan's arms wrapped themselves around her, and Tom's only brother patted him on the back with a wide smile, Sybil understood. Fully. Truly. They were not announcing this to a group of distant relations and acquaintances. They were simply sharing these wonderful news with Tom's, with _their_ , family. A family which they were truly binding together now.

 

Whatever would be left of it in the end.

 

-

 

Sybil stretched out her legs, the stiff fabric of her skirt bunched up around her knees. She sighed as the burning soles of her feet rubbed along the rug in front of the sofa, only the thin, delicate stocking between them. The long walk to the market and back to the flat seemed utterly exhausting these days, a mere small bag of potatoes and a handful of other purchases robbing Sybil of her breath, and causing a stinging pain in her lower back.

 

Those walks had little in common with the feather-light steps, the adventurous trips that they used to be a few months ago, back when she had taken the opportunity to explore short cuts and long ways around. Taking this new city, this new world, in with all it had to offer.

 

Sybil hissed as the knitting needle dug deeply into the tip of her finger, and she raised her hand slowly to inspect the damage. The skin had barely been broken, nothing more than a small dent and a lingering pain to prove for her clumsiness.

 

Knitting had never been her strongest suit, and she had found herself quite overwhelmed and frustrated in her attempts to knit clothes for her unborn child. There were several half-finished hats and booties in the little basket by her feet, all only recognizable as such with a certain amount of willingness and imagination.

 

It was not what she wanted to spend the many spare hours with that she now had resting in her hands once again. Hours she used to mostly occupy with changing dresses and quietly watching Anna's reflection in the mirror as she fixed her hair. Knitting clothes for her baby failed to fill the gap that the nursing had left in Sybil's day. However, once she made it clearer to herself that those clothes were necessary, her hands appeared to move swifter, and much more willingly.

 

Although they had not yet begun to look for a bigger flat, one that would become the place for them to raise a family and grow old in together, it had become clear very quickly that with only Tom's income carrying them through the month, buying new clothes for the baby would require some calculation, even before their child was born.

 

The calculated movements of the knitting needles in her hand, the pain in her fingertip still pounding through her veins, Sybil longed for the rush and bustle of the hospital. In the quiet living room, no sounds but the the cracking of the fire and the creaking and aching of the old house, she could almost hear the busy clicking of heels against tiled floors, the sounds of water running, metal instruments clinging, and doors opening and closing.

 

Only a handful of days had passed since she had taken off her uniform one last time, and already she felt foreign in her skirt and blouse, felt uncomfortable in her stockings and misplaced in her braided hair.

 

This was, however, quite a day to be looking forward to, and Sybil found herself gazing at the clock every other minute, silently cursing the finger for seemingly moving backwards.

 

Tea at Clare's house was a rare occasion, but one that was thoroughly enjoyable, particularly on a slowly passing day like this, like any other that had gone lately, and like many others that would come. Her second sister-in-law was still somewhat estranged, mostly because they rarely saw each other. She was a chatty woman, but in a much more pleasing and humouring way than Sybil had known until now.

 

Sybil had sensed a certain distance between them in those blurry and confusing first weeks after her arrival, however, had quickly figured out that this distance was filled only with Clare's love and protection for her brother, an immense sense of protectiveness for the sibling she had not seen for so long.

 

It had been Clare to embrace her the tightest after announcing the pregnancy, and Clare to make a gigantic step forward, in her direction, in their direction, down the path of family and friendship that she had been somewhat apprehensive about for so long.

 

Her gaze flickering at the clock once more, sighing at the immobile sight, Sybil put down the rather big hat she was knitting. In this moment, she did not yet know that she would never finish it.

 

Just as she was about to push herself off the sofa, her hand resting on her belly, the front door downstairs was slammed shut with so much force that Sybil could feel the old house trembling and creaking. Her entire body tensed, and she froze, listening to the hurried and loud steps coming up the stairs.

 

She was not sure what to think, whether fear was appropriate or over-reactive, and her mind was running wild, trying to come up with explanations and with the reassurance that she had locked the door, that nobody could have gotten in unless they had a key, for she had not heard the door being forced open.

 

When the door to the flat flew open, Sybil's heart seemingly stopped beating for the fragment of a second, a hollow sensation of relief and disturbance flooding her. When the comprehension dawned on her that it was Tom standing in the doorway – not a stranger, not a danger, nothing at all to fear – her heart picked up again, and only when she felt her knees wobble slightly did she realize that she was not sitting down any more, but standing dangerously unsteady with one hand on her pounding chest and the other over her belly.

 

“Heavens, Tom. Don't you ever frighten me like that ag-” Sybil stopped talking the moment her overwhelmed senses fully took in her husband. The ragged, sweaty, dishevelled, panicked, utterly disturbed and crying man standing in the doorway, “What happened?”

 

Tom's eyes were alert, taking in every feature and corner of their flat, almost maniacally, before his eyes finally came to rest on her. His feet seemed barely willing to carry him forward any further, as if invisible weights were holding him back, as he stumbled towards her.

 

Noticing his effort, Sybil met him halfway, her own wobbly knees protesting. Suddenly, she found herself in Tom's arms, his lips almost brutally hard against hers, his fingers digging deeply into her skin as he held her as tightly as possibly, crushing her body against his.

 

“What happened, Tom?” she gasped as their lips parted, Tom's hands frantically roaming her back, stroking up to her neck, cupping her face, before coming to rest on top of her trembling hand against her belly, “Talk to me, please.”

 

Tom rested his forehead against hers, and when she tried to reach out for him, to hold him against her as much as he was holding her, he refused, holding their intertwined hands protectively against her stomach.

 

“Sean,” Tom whispered, his voice thick, and Sybil could see the crystal-clear tears that clung to his eyelashes, of such bitter-sweet beauty that it reminded her of dew embracing the fields on a cool spring morning, “He got shot.”

 

Sybil felt physically sick as the tidal wave of shock and disbelief washed over her. She did not know what caused the tears that gathered in her eyes and quickly ran down her cheeks – perhaps it was a first rush of grief, of sadness, maybe anger that this had really happened, this unspoken expectation of where the world might be headed. Or maybe, in the end, it was simply her body's response to the overwhelming surge of emotions that seemingly throbbed in each and every fibre of her being.

 

“Is he...,” she began whispering, shudders running down her spine as she did not dare utter the words, the words that would bring reality to a full crash in her mind.

 

“He's dead.”

 

Despite his tears, despite the shaking of his limbs, despite the desperate way he clung to her, Tom's words sounded utterly defeated, almost indifferent and plain as he muttered them against the skin of Sybil's neck. Warm tears were coating her skin, and as her breathing began to become laboured, choked sobs fighting their way out of her system, Sybil was not sure any more which tears belonged to her, and which were the ones Tom had shed.

 

“What about Caitlin and the children?” Sybil forced herself to whisper, an instinctual fear causing her to lean further against Tom as she thought of the children who would now have to grow up without their father, and the young woman who would have to grow old without her beloved husband by her side.

 

“They're at my mother's. But,” Tom explained quietly, finally loosening his vice grip on Sybil's hands to frame her face, “But I had to come and get you.”

 

Sybil nodded, feeling Tom's calloused fingers slide against the salty trails that traced her cheeks.

 

She did not ask in this moment. What had happened, how it had happened, what had taken place to throw her world off track so suddenly, so unjustly. It was not the moment to inquire, and she found no place inside of her to find any interest in reasons and explanations.

 

Later on, Sybil could only remember that day as a dark swirl of cloudy memories, of tears and embraces, of Tom never straying from her side, of his mother's silent tears, of two young children asking questions about what their father was doing now that he was in Heaven. No memories seemed solid, every single one of them slipping through her fingers like ashes in the rare moments in which she tried to recall that day.

 

Some were more vivid than others. Her attempts to coax Caitlin into eating at least a little of the soup Tom's sisters had cooked, stroking Maera's thick hair as the little girl finally fell asleep, Tom's hand clinging to her own as he rushed them back home early in the morning.

 

The only debris of memory that seemed to have burned itself into Sybil's memory like a blaze of fire was the first glance she had taken at Caitlin after they had arrived.

 

Sybil had only seen this expression that would haunt her for many of the following sleepless nights twice before. A bright memory of a hot summer, back when she had been so utterly innocent, naively discovering the world with Tom's gentle steering into the right direction. This look clouded those memories just as much as the war that had taken away every last breath of joy and innocence. Her mother's glassy eyes when Sybil had sat down by her bedside and shyly taken her cool hand on that inclement day her brother had not been allowed to see even a glimpse of sunlight, had not been allowed a single breath of the summer's breeze.

 

And Mary. That utterly terrible night Mr Moseley had taken the telegram to Downton, the night Matthew's fate had been so unclear.

 

Mary. The complete destruction of her world, complete incomprehension, the façade her eldest sister was so masterfully capable of holding up – so masterfully as to commit to an engagement with a person that inflicted so much sadness and fatigue on her life – shattering like thin glass. Tear-drop diamonds of shards scattering across the remains – across the heart she knew her sister had, maybe more so than anyone else.

 

The look on Caitlin's face had been the same, the memory filling Sybil with as much fear as that of her mother and sister had for so long. More than anything, she was sure that she would not, simply _could_ not, have their fates be hers.

 

Not while there were still dusty paths to escape it, rocky roads to travel to protect the life she had built, the life she had left so much behind for, the life she had fought for and stood up for.

 

_No._ She would not allow that to be shattered like theirs had. After all the years spent fighting, this was one more battle she was willing to take out.

 

.:.

 

Silently, Sybil tied the plain ribbon around the end of her braid. The corner of her eye could not fight the glimpse of the black skirt and coat that hung across the chair's back, still slightly damp and sprinkled with droplets of rain.

 

“I feel like we should be doing more for her,” she said quietly, looking past her pale reflection in the mirror, eyes resting on Tom, sitting upright in bed, fidgeting with his sleeve, “More than cooking for them, and giving them a place to stay and making sure the children are sleeping soundly. But then I realize that there is nothing more we can do. And it makes me so desperately sad.”

 

Her hands dropped into her lap, her gaze following, and when she saw the thin golden band around her finger glistening in the dim candlelight, she let her eyes fall closed. It could not make it better, naturally. Nothing could, and most definitely not shutting out the world around her. Like a child, believing so strongly not to be seen by anyone as long as their eyes were closed securely. Pretending that the world around them disappeared the moment darkness took over the vivid images of life all around.

 

“I know,” Tom murmured, ending the world of solitude Sybil had begun to sink into, as a last resort to escape the pain that undoubtedly awaited her in the real world.

 

She sighed, pushing her exhausted body out of the chair. Making her way to the bed, the soft flow of her nightdress around her bare skin felt less liberating, less comforting than it usually did, grief and despair only allowing the cool chill and the frizzy seams to be registered by her conscious mind.

 

“How long do you think Clare can let them stay at her house?” Sybil asked as she buried her tired legs under the cover.

 

“I suppose she will try to let them stay as long as possible,” Tom answered, almost in a daze as he reached out his arm to rest his palm on top of Sybil's hand, “But there is only so much room, and if her father-in-law's condition gets any worse, I doubt she can provide a home for three more people for much longer.”

 

They sat next to each other in silence for a while, letting the scarce warmth of the duvet seep into their frozen limbs, the candlelight flickering against the thin walls. Sybil could not shake off the thought of Clare's small house, crammed with too many people for whom there was no room.

 

It was wrong, it was unjust, and there was nothing they could do.

 

“We can't stay here, Tom,” she finally whispered, all the turmoil in her mind at last coming to rest, “I understand you now.”

 

She turned towards Tom, whose look of worry and defeat caused her to lean into him, fingertips coming to rest at the neckline of his shirt. She could feel his heart beating steadily beneath her, his hands enveloping her in a warm, comforting embrace.

 

“I don't want you to do anything you do not want to do. Even if it is the best thing to do.”

 

“I know. But, I can't... I couldn't bear-” Sybil could not finish. It was not a lack of words – for her mind threw too many words at her, words filled with terror and horror, with utter darkness. She simply could not bring herself to spell them out, to allow them to echo in the darkness. Something inside of her hindered her from doing so, an instinctual fear that her words might serve as a curse, might conjure up the very horrors they disguised in syllables and letters.

 

Tom never said a words, and as he gently tilted her head upwards, his lips pressing softly against hers, Sybil felt morbidly comforted by the knowledge that he understood exactly what she had wanted to say, that his heart was tormented by the same agonizing fear.

 

“I can not leave you behind, Tom,” Sybil whispered into the kiss, unwilling to end this closeness that had been filled with too much despair in the last few days, “If you stay, I stay. I know it is unfair, but all of this is unfair. Nothing _is_ fair. God knows nothing that has happened in the last few days should have happened. Nobody deserved that. But it made it all even clearer to me. This is our future at stake, and we can only protect it together. So, will you come?”

 

Their eyes were so close that Sybil could practically feel Tom's resignation, and she began to feel the blame bubbling inside of her like hot water, burning the last debris of confidence she had had for their future.

 

“Of course,” Tom replied, brushing his lips against her so lightly that Sybil inhaled deeply, shivers running down her spine. Her own hand came to rest against the rough but barely visible stubble on his cheek.

 

“I know how hard it must be for you-” she began, the words bursting out of her in an attempt to justify her decision – not to Tom, she knew he understood – but to herself. She was clinging to anything in her reach to keep the guilt inside of her at bay. In control. However, Tom's finger against her lips silenced her, and he held her even closer as he spoke.

 

“Don't do this. Don't already fill yourself with hate for your decision because of me. I'll manage. This is just as hard for you, do not pretend otherwise. This is a difficult choice for both of us.”

 

“I don't want our child to grow up at Downton,” Sybil confessed, the falsely bright, sparkly and warm memories of her childhood like the contents of a storybook in her mind, nothing she wanted her own children to actually experience, “And, no matter how much it pains me to see my family putting me to the sidelines, no matter how much I miss them, I do not want to spend _my_ life there, either.”

 

“I know,” Tom said quietly, fingers toying wearily with the few shorter strands of hair framing her forehead, “And I promise you, no matter what, no matter how long this chaos here lasts, that I will _not_ let that happen. It is our only safe option for now. But if it stretches on, I _promise_ you. I will find a way.”

 

He sealed his promise with a more demanding kiss, a promise Sybil knew and could feel he meant just as much as the one he had been keeping for so many years, ever since that cool day she had left her childhood home for the very first time.

 

In retrospect, she wondered as Tom deepened the kiss, if that had not been the real point when she had left Downton – in her heart, at least – for good. Not the day they boarded the train to take them to the ferry and across the sea, but that day he took her to York, the day she became independent. The day he confessed his wish of wanting to spend _every waking moment_ with her.

 

“Your mother will despise me,” Sybil murmured, almost in fear, as her fingers curled around the fine hair at the base of Tom's neck.

 

“What on Earth makes you think that?”

 

“You have been away from home for so long, and now that you're finally back, I'm taking you away again.”

 

“You're not taking me away, darling,” he reassured her, his breath fanning across the sensitive skin of her neck as he rested his chin against her shoulder, “She will understand. I don't want you to worry about this, she will never despise you.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“She knows how much I love you.”

 

Sybil closed her eyes as Tom's whispered confession faded into silence, and she longed for sleep to come over her more desperately than ever before in her life.

 

“I love you.”

 


	7. who I remember

_It doesn't matter who my father was, it matters who I remember he was._

**Anne Sexton**

 

After the decision had been made, Sybil felt as if she was suddenly becoming part of an avalanche, everything around her melting together into one extensive, powerful creature that moved with rapid speed and entirely out of her control.

 

She had written to her mother as soon as she had woken up in the morning, still enveloped by Tom's warm arms, the outline of the buttons on his pyjamas pressed into the flushed skin of her cheek. Her legs had been almost numb as she had crawled out of bed, throwing her dark blue dressing gown over her shoulders.

 

The letter had been oddly easy to write, much, _much_ easier than the last one she had written to her mother. Maybe it was because, deep down, she knew it was a letter her mother was expecting, whether she wanted to admit it or not. Unlike the announcement of the summer arrival of her first grandchild – which undoubtedly had come as no surprise, but an unwanted event – Cora would probably regard the letter Sybil was writing now as a confirmation, almost as a morbid sigh of relief.

 

Everything went unnaturally smoothly, and something told Sybil that Tom, although he never would have gone through with sending her back to England against her will, had planned for this possibility for quite a while.

 

Mrs Gallagher invited them down into her flat for dinner after they informed her they would be moving out, and Sybil felt like a terrible person as she saw the expression of sheer disappointment on the old woman's face.

 

“Make sure you teach the little one where home really is,” she had said with a bitter smile, and Sybil had nodded, for the very first time accepting the fact that her first child would not be born here, but in England, much like the nameless, faceless children she could have given birth to had she followed the path meant for her in her parents' eyes.

 

Those children's cries haunted Sybil's restless nights, and she found herself incapable of finding the words to explain to a worried Tom why she woke up night after night, fear radiating from her eyes, fingers trembling as the lifeless echoes of her unborn children's pleads faded into silence.

 

Her days, much like her nights, were filled up to the very last waking hour, with dreadful business to be taken care of, undesired conversations to have and plans to make that contradicted Sybil's every genuine wish.

 

However, the moment she had feared so dreadfully had come and passed in a blur, almost so unremarkable that Sybil waited for days after for some after-effect to set in, for the tidal wave to hit after a long built-up.

 

It never did. Telling Tom's mother had been painful, awful and uncomfortable just as Sybil had feared, but none of the many scenarios her head had planned out had actually taken place. Instead, Mrs Branson had accepted the decision with a silent nod and a mournful sigh, before continuing to darn the socks in her lap.

 

Sybil had sought Tom's eyes, sitting uncomfortably in her chair, but he had simply shaken his head, silently letting her know to leave things be.

 

“She did the same thing when I told her I would go to England for work,” he had later explained as they made their way through a crowd of people heading for the market, “Just nodded, never said a word.”

 

In the end, the one thing to really keep Sybil awake at night, morbidly releasing her from the pain of her nightmares, was the injustice towards Caitlin. She had been there the day they told Tom's sisters about their plan, and Caitlin's face, as immobile and lifeless as it had become, had simply closed her eyes. That simple, plain movement, so gentle and delicate, had almost had the power to change Sybil's mind, to make her drop everything and stay.

 

It seemed so utterly unjust that Caitlin had to go through all of this heartbreak and pain, had to become a widow so young and raise two children without any security within all this chaos and trouble, when Sybil had the opportunity to simple leave. To escape, to take her husband and their unborn child to safety.

 

Because of where she had grown up, because of who she really was. And it was not fair. Sybil desperately wanted to give Caitlin the same chance, a chance to protect her family. But it was already too late for that, her family already torn apart.

 

When February began to come to an end, and a state of disturbance was announced, Tom decided to quit his job earlier than planned. Sybil's restless attempts to convince him otherwise were in vain, and she could not help but feel relieved to have him by her side, in as much safety as possible.

 

She could see very clearly that he took his early exit from work just as hard as she had, and they passed by each other in their flat, a few boxed scattered around, containing what little they really owned. Packed, ready to be given away, thrown out or stored in Fionn's basement until the day they would return.

 

Tom was absent, just like she was, both of their minds occupied with the uncertain future they were facing. They had not found an answer to the question what Tom would be doing back in England. Whenever the topic came up, he joked, saying he could always go back to being a chauffeur, when in reality, Sybil could see how much he truly worried about the uncertainty.

 

Cora's reply to Sybil's letter had been short, almost factual, and Sybil could almost feel her father's input behind every single delicate word that was written. The hint of joy she felt, the bright anticipation of seeing her family again after so long, was crushed every time she realized that she was not simply returning to her childhood home. She was returning to the place she had willingly given up. Whatever welcoming they would receive, it would not be the one she might have been given once.

 

How would they handle it? Having their estranged youngest daughter and sister and their former chauffeur living under the very same roof? Would her father ever be willing to accept her happiness?

 

All these doubts and worries wandered along the parallel path of their planning and organizing, which, except for a re-booking of their tickets for the ferry after the midnight curfew had been imposed, went so morbidly smoothly.

 

Maybe it was a sign, a hint, something unnamed attempting to show Sybil that her decision had been the right one, that she had not made a mistake by agreeing to Tom's idea, to go along with what he needed to do to keep his promise.

 

To protect her, to protect him.

 

It must have been the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

 

.:.

 

“And do write as soon as you arrive. This wind is terrible, and I don't want to have to sit around, hoping that you two don't go down in the sea,” Tom's mother said insistently, her cheeks flushed from said wind, and the scarce, but surprising warmth of the early March sun that broke through the clouds.

 

“Yes, Ma,” Tom replied, patting his mother's back as she wrapped him up in a short embrace, “We'll write as soon as we arrive. Don't worry.”

 

Sybil's eyes wandered away from Tom and his mother, a feeling that she was invading their privacy creeping up her back, and she eyed the cloudy sky instead. Every now and then, a tiny sprinkle of blue, a flicker of spring and warmth and flowers, popped up in the midst of greyish white, filling Sybil with a sense of anticipation she had not expected.

 

Her suitcase leaned heavily against her leg, her hands wrapped tightly around the bag she was carrying in her arms. She could still her her mother-in-law talking to Tom, but instead listened to the rush of the waves behind them, the occasional cry of a seagull, and the howling of the wind in her ears.

 

The smell of the sea was prominent, salty, fishy, and she had never quite been able to put her finger on what exactly made it so appealing, when, if she was honest, it was so terribly unpleasant. Something about it that was so tightly connected to the far-away horizon, to the glitter of sunlight against the shiny water's surface, something about the infinity of the sea all seemed to be tightly interwoven with the characteristic smell. That seemed to make it endurable, almost enjoyable.

 

“Sybil, dear,” Mrs Branson's voice suddenly interrupted Sybil's thoughts, and she looked away from the blue-speckled sky to see her mother-in-law's deep blue eyes in front of her, glistening with tears, “You make sure to look after my boy.”

 

The slight laughter in her voice was heavily etched with pain, and Sybil could not help but lean forward and embrace Tom's mother, desperate to keep her own tears at bay. Her stomach pressed against Mrs Branson's midsection, and when the two women parted, Sybil's eyes still burning with unshed tears, she was faced with a broader, more genuine smile.

 

“You two will manage, I'm sure. Only, let me know about the little one.”

 

“Of course,” Sybil sighed, heart filled with the same pain as that of the much older woman in front of her.

 

“And you take care of them both, my boy.”

 

There was something faintly threatening in her words, a maternal force that Sybil very well remembered hearing from her own mother's mouth. She wondered, for a moment, as Tom picked up their suitcases as kissed his mother's cheek, if she could ever be as much of a mother as the ones she had seen and lived with and witnessed.

 

She was sure she would never be like Tom's mother. They were too different, from two entirely different worlds, living very different lives in very different worlds. Still, she doubted that she would ever be like her own mother, either.

 

Then again, she thought as she mirrored her mother-in-law's chaste wave and she and Tom made their way to board the ferry, this was the most important thing she had yet to learn about motherhood. That she could not live up to anyone who had been there before her. That she could only ever become the mother that was already living and waiting somewhere deep inside of her, only now awakening as her baby grew day by day.

 

She doubted that her mother had been very similar to her own mother, that Tom's mother had been much alike his grandmother. Every generation lived in such different worlds, and could only hand on so much while so few things in life were constant.

 

“Careful,” Tom said quietly as he followed her over the tiny gap in the ramp onto the ferry, and Sybil was still fumbling with the tickets in her gloved hands as she turned her head away from his mother, wondering when she would see her again.

 

-

 

The journey was so utterly different from the last that Sybil felt lost, small, too little standing by the railing, finger wrapped around the chilly, white iron. The howling wind seemed to be the only constant in her life in this moment, rushing into her ears, blowing her coat around her legs and loosening the tightly braided waves of her hair.

 

When she had stood in this very same spot last spring, every fibre in her body had been tense with anticipation, with promise and hope, excitement about the future that lay ahead at the cloudy, grey horizon.

 

She had left England a lady, a fiancée, innocent and somewhat naively entertained by the life she was heading towards. Now, she returned to England as a wife, an expectant mother, riddled by grief and doubt, an outcast of the society she had grown up a part of. Nevertheless, in this moment, Sybil was just as content, just as strongly convinced and happy with the choice she had made than she had been that day in April, fingers intertwined with Tom's almost desperately. Years worth of unresolved tension and longing between them seeking some chaste form of relief in the midst of the stormy sea.

 

Tom's hand now rested against the small of her back as they stood at the railing, looking over the angry waves. Neither of them had spoken much since they had boarded the ferry, each of them lost in their own thoughts, which, Sybil was sure of, were riddled by the very same doubts and worries in this moment.

 

Sybil's feet were aching already from the short time she had been standing motionlessly at the railing, and the prospect of the remaining long journey back to Downton only increased the dull ache in her lower back. An ache that the scarce warmth of Tom's hand through the layers of her clothing could only vaguely mend.

 

Still, she had refused Tom's offer to find a place to sit – one of the few words exchanged between them. Amongst all the gold and silver, the jewel and the ballrooms, the dinners and dances, the frocks and silk, rich colours and rich tastes, something as simply as the sea had always been scarce in Sybil's childhood.

 

She could only recall a handful of times that she had heard the rush of the breaking waves, had ruffled her nose at the contradicting scent of the sea, had heard the cries of seagulls and, to her mother's disapproval, had felt the grainy touch of sand slipping through her fingers.

 

No, she would not deny herself the feeling of floating as she leaned forward a little over the railing, eyes focussed on nothing but the seemingly infinite water beneath her.

 

“Ouch,” she suddenly mumbled as she felt something similar to a punch in her stomach. Her hand automatically unwrapped itself from the bannister, coming to rest against the growing swell of her stomach.

 

“What's wrong?” Tom asked worriedly, his hand at the small of her back steadying Sybil a little as she turned towards him.

 

“I think someone might be sea-sick,” she said with a faint smile on her lips, the entire world suddenly seeming to turn around nothing else but the odd, foreign but at the same time familiar movements inside of her.

 

“Do you need to sit down? Maybe we can find you something to drink, that might make it better,” Tom rushed, his free hand coming to rest gently against Sybil's arm.

 

“It's not me, Tom. I'm fine,” Sybil explained, smiling at Tom so genuinely, so light-heartedly, that she could see some of the heavy weight being lifted off his shoulders. The confused wrinkle of Tom's forehead caused her to chuckle, and she could barely believe the sounds escaping her lips.

 

Taking Tom's hand in her own, she rested it gently just below her own against her belly, pressing slightly, looking expectantly at Tom. His eyes focussed on their hands against the blue of Sybil's coat, his bare fingers and her dark gloves framing their unborn child inside of her.

 

When is eyes suddenly widened, Sybil felt her lips stretch into an even wider smile, and she met Tom's fascinated gaze as he looked up at her.

 

“I can feel it,” he whispered, utterly mesmerized, almost stunned, “I can feel our baby.”

 

“I know,” Sybil replied, her voice merely a whisper as well, mingling with the rush of the wind as she felt their baby move once more.

 

“This feels so... different. I can't explain,” Tom murmured, more to himself than her, but Sybil nodded, even though he could not see, “Does it hurt much?”

 

“Not really, no,” Sybil replied, shivering as a particularly cold breeze hit them, “I was only surprised. She does not usually move this much.”

 

“She?” Tom asked, looking up now, his hand pinned to her stomach, unwilling to ever let go. Sybil understood, and she smiled, her own hand moving to rest on top of Tom's. This was his moment, the flicker of time to make it all real to him, to feel their child, to understand fully that it was really, truly there.

 

“Oh, I don't know. Sometimes, it simply feels like it's a she,” Sybil answered, wondering for a moment what instinctual part of her brain had rushed the small three-letter word past her lips.

 

“I'd like that,” Tom whispered, leaning forward to softly press his lips against Sybil's cheek, “A little girl.”

 

“Me, too.”

 

As they parted, Tom's fingers interlacing with Sybil's – so much like they had done that first time they had travelled across the sea, only now it was the three of them – Sybil wondered why Tom's moment had occurred just now. Why their baby – their daughter, maybe – had chosen this time to let her father know she was there. A time of grief, loaded with worry and doubt as the waves violently crushed against the ferry.

 

She leaned against Tom's side, tucking her head into the crook of his neck, allowing her husband to wrap his arm around her waist.

 

Silently, the two of them stood in the storm, facing the far-away horizon, their near future, both of their hearts lightened somewhat by the promise that, no matter where this journey would take them, the life growing inside of Sybil would make up for _so much_ heartache and pain along the way.

 

.:.

 

Sybil gladly took hold of Tom's outstretched hand, eyeing her feet carefully as she stepped out of the train onto the platform. Every bone in her body ached from the long journey and the restless night of sleep in the tiny guest room by the English seaside.

 

Her chest was filled with a contracting, nervous ache as her eyes found the big sign stating _Downton_ over the heads of the small crowd.

 

“We're here,” Tom said into her ear, his own words only partly able to convince her of the casualness on his face. Perhaps, for a short moment, it was alright, maybe even the better option, to pretend that this was a normal journey, a homecoming to look forward to, rather than so dreadfully overshadowed.

 

“We are,” Sybil confirmed, hoping dearly that the smile on her face was encouraging Tom, and not giving away how the prospect of simply stepping back onto the train and reversing the straining journey seemed so very promising to her at the moment.

 

Tom squeezed her hand comfortingly, before untangling their fingers to pick up their bags. Sighing, Sybil once more overlooked the slowly dispersing crowd, and she quickly spotted what she had been looking for. An elderly man, grey hair only increasing the sickly glow of his pale skin, almost lost in a familiar, dark green uniform, was approaching them with quick steps.

 

For one short, confusing moment, Sybil almost started to giggle at the sight, her eyes flickering between the chauffeur now approaching them more surely, and her husband next to her, taking in a deep breath. It seemed oddly hilarious, the uniform being the only things these two men seemed to have in common. Sybil could see Tom's eyebrow rising slightly as he spotted his replacement, and she knew he thought the same as she did.

 

Then, however, as she took a step forward to approach the man sent to pick them up, she suddenly, and with the force of a fist punched into her chest, realized that nothing about this should cause her to laugh. That her father's undoubtedly immature reasoning in hiring this man – very much alike Taylor, she thought, sudden memories of first drives across the grounds of Downton flashing through her tired mind – was only another proof of his lack of acceptance and tolerance towards his youngest daughter's choice of life.

 

“Lady Sybil. Mr Branson,” the tired-looking man said as he came to a halt in front of them, nodding his head. His words were stoic, monotone, every syllable the polar opposite of everything Tom had ever been, “May I take your luggage?”

 

“Actually, I'm-” Tom began, but Sybil chastely rested her hand against his forearm, silencing him. He looked down at her, and her faint smile – filled with all the words she could not say out loud in this moment – told him everything he needed to know. This was the starting point. From here on now, the battlefield that lay ahead of them would only be as bad and as painful as they chose to lay it out. They had to pick their battles in the near future, and this was not one Sybil had the endurance and willingness to fight out.

 

The realization dawned on Tom's face like the first grey, lifeless morning in autumn, when all the leafs have fallen and winter is only the tick of a clock away. No matter how much they despised conforming to the rules and etiquettes, if they wanted to keep all trouble and all cause for arguments as little as possible – maintain a small flame, one that would not pose too much threat of turning into a wildfire in front of their very eyes before either of them could even react – then this was the first step.

 

“Of course,” he finished his sentence instead, casting a polite smile at the man who now took the two small suitcases out of his hands.

 

“If you would follow me.”

 

Sybil immediately reached out for Tom's hand, intertwining their fingers as they followed the new chauffeur through the clusters of people that still stood on the platform. Despite the countless times Sybil had walked this path out of the station, had even followed Tom towards the car, this was all different, all new, all heart-fluttering and unnerving.

 

From the corner of her eye, she noticed how broadly Tom carried his shoulders, as if subconsciously attempting to maintain a certain amount of dignity in this undignified situation for him. So many words lingered on Sybil's tongue, so many apologies and reassurances. Words she could not mutter now, words for which there was no room, no room to breathe, no room to move. Not even the slightest, barely enough for a gentle brush of her gloved thumb against the back of his hand, barely a butterfly's flutter as they stepped out of the small station.

 

As she turned to watch her step, Sybil almost stopped dead in her tracks, heartbeat fuelled by an odd sensation of relief as she spotted the car. It was not the Renault, not _their_ car. Not the one he had driven her and her mother and sisters in the first day they met – that day when the fair had brightened up the town. Not the car he had given her those pamphlets in that had broadened her world so much. Not the car he had taken her to the count with, the car he had carried her to to safe her. Not the car she had stepped into after two months of silence following his proposal. Not the car they had began their ill-fated journey to Scotland with. Not the car Edith had driven them down to this very station with, Tom in the front seat with her, Mary and her mother alongside Sybil in the back.

 

It was _their_ car, something special, and it should not ever become the stage of this charade they were so hesitant to play.

 

The chauffeur, whose name Sybil found a mystery she was unusually tired to solve, set down the suitcases to open the back door. When Tom stood dead still, Sybil untangled her hand from his with a final brush of her thumb against his skin, and walked across the pavement, taking the old man's hand to assist her into the car.

 

She felt the coolness of the leather seats seeping through the layers of her clothes as she sat down, leaning as far forward as her swollen stomach would allow to see Tom hesitantly walking over to the car. For a splint second, before the frame of the car robbed her of the sight of her husband's face, Sybil could see the battle in Tom's eyes.

 

He had never sat in any of the car's back seats, had never had the door held open for him. When he ducked his head and joined her in the car, she could see him swallow, his hands restless as he sat down next to her.

 

Reaching out, Sybil reclaimed his hand with her own, and in silence they waited for the chauffeur to load their luggage, and make his way into the front seat. When the engine roared to life, Sybil could almost feel the adrenaline rushing through Tom's veins, and a short glance at him proved to her how tense he was as they began their drive up to the house.

 

She suspected he felt just as nervous as she did herself, probably even more so. She was about to reunite with her family, estranged yes, but her family nonetheless. Tom, however, was about to face his former employers as an unwelcome member of their family, and his former colleagues as their superior. No matter how hard she tried, Sybil could not imagine how uncomfortable these last few minutes before the storm must be for Tom. Her fingers tracing patterns across his hand only seemed to soothe him a little, and as they passed the church, Tom relaxed a little into his seat.

 

After all these months of being away, after all the past weeks of planning, Sybil found herself utterly unprepared and unsure of what to expect. The early spring sun was peeking out amongst the light clouds, a slight sprinkle of blue welcoming them here and there.

 

Closing her eyes for a moment, exhaustion draining the energy out of every single fibre of her body, Sybil made a silent prayer for things to go smoothly. She hoped dearly her father could at least maintain his polite spirit that she recalled from the moment he had given them his reluctant blessing. She did, however, fear that Lavinia's death, all the grief that the young woman's awful death had caused, had been the trigger for her father's softened emotions back then, and that time had washed away whatever kindred spirits he might have had.

 

Then, however, he had given permission for them to stay.

 

As the sudden shaking of the car told Sybil that they had begun to pull up the gravel path towards the house, she opened her eyes, watching fields of green pass by.

 

What other choice did her father have apart from casting her off entirely? How much did his forced hospitality really matter?

 

Sybil turned to look at Tom, his own eyes pinned at the forest on his side of the window, slowly coming to life as she sun peeked out once more. His jaw was set tight, and the rise and fall of his chest indicated deep, calming breaths.

 

Tightly squeezing Tom's warm hand in these last moments of quiet together, Sybil looked out the front of the car, the silhouette of the big house she had once called home quickly approaching. Never in her life had she been away from this place for so long, and the time spent away had seemingly erased whatever familiarity she had known about the grand house.

 

It suddenly seemed so insanely vast compared to all the narrow spaces she was now used to, however, at the same time, her memory had fooled her into believing that it had been much, much larger. Something about it seemed quite small, almost peaceful, instead of strong and steady as she had always regarded it.

 

She almost let out a sigh of relief as the car came to a rumbling stop on the gravel in front of the heavy front door, and she was sure she could hear Tom make an odd sound in the back of his throat.

 

No big line up. No grand line of servants standing straight, looking ahead without really taking in what was happening. Stiff, important, loaded with the dust of her class that Sybil so very much wanted to be free of.

 

Carson stood tall in the doorway, head held high as usual. A young man in footmen's livery whom Sybil did not recognize walked up to the car, looking so much like William that Sybil felt some forgotten surge of sadness overcome her.

 

Her father stood by Carson's side, and what Sybil could make out through the car's window, he looked as stoic as the chauffeur had sounded earlier, calm, almost clinically collected. Her mother and sisters stood down in front of the first step, Isis prancing around their skirts.

 

When the new footman opened the car door, his hand reaching out to assist Sybil out of the car, she took a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed by the confusion of being welcomed as a guest in her childhood home.

 

Casting one last encouraging smile at Tom, who looked much paler than usual, but had a familiar determined expression on his face that reminded her of the night they had announced their engagement to her family, Sybil took hold of the outstretched hand. She felt a surge of confidence for her husband growing inside of her, and taking another deep breath, stepped out onto the dry gravel.

 

The familiar crunch underneath her heels seemed to ground her, and she stood more steadily as she would have expected. She tried to not take in the ancient walls towering over her, white clouds and speckles of blue framing the ornamented tops.

 

“Sybil, darling,” her mother said enthusiastically, stepping forward away from the door towards her youngest child. For a brief moment, Sybil recalled all side glances from her mother, all short-lived conversations to change her mind, the brief goodbye at the train station and every single platonic letter she had received. Then, however, she felt herself wrapped up in her mother's arms, and for the time being, felt content, and more than willing to forgive.

 

“Mama,” she said quietly, loosening the embrace to look over her mother's shoulder. Mary and Edith slowly stepped closer, both smiling genuinely.

 

“Did you have a pleasant journey?” Cora asked as she removed her arms entirely from around her youngest daughter's body, the almost relieved smile on her face something Sybil had certainly not expected.

 

“It was alright,” she answered, smiling brightly as she fell into Mary's embrace.

 

“You look wonderful,” her eldest sister said, making room for Edith.

 

“Tom, how wonderful to see you again.”

 

Sybil turned rather suddenly out of Edith's embrace. Her mother's words, kind despite the apparent calculation behind them, took her off guard, and when Cora took both of Tom's hands in her own, Sybil felt a lump forming in her throat.

 

“It's my pleasure to be here again, your Ladyship,” Tom replied, and the gentle touch of a hand on her shoulder caused Sybil to turn around. Edith and Mary stood next to her, smiling. Somehow, they seemed oddly confident in their mother's behaviour, and Sybil wondered which conversations had taken place prior to their arrival.

 

“Oh, it's Cora, please.”

 

Tom seemed a little unsure how to respond to his mother-in-law's friendly gesture, and Sybil smiled gratefully at Mary as she came to his aid.

 

“Matthew and Cousin Isobel are coming for dinner tonight, and Granny, as well. They are all very much looking forward to seeing you again. It has been such a long time.”

 

Sybil knew that Mary was talking more about her than about Tom, and she understood her sister's inhibitions. Nonetheless, she was grateful for her sister's effort, for at least she took a step away from her deeply rooted concerns about Tom. So clearly, she could recall Mary's smile at Tom after their wedding during the summer. In that moment, Sybil knew that Mary had understood how happy Tom made her.

 

The mere prospect of having to endure an entire dinner exhausted Sybil, though, and her gaze briefly met Tom's, who seemed frightened more than confident for a splint second. She smiled at him encouragingly, wishing to find some way to reassure him that everything would not turn out any worse than they had expected.

 

“That's wonderful,” she said, looking around until her eyes fell upon her father.

 

She had not noticed until now that he had approached them, standing by Mary's side now. He looked just as calm as he had before, no traces of hostility in his eyes.

 

“Sybil,” he said, and Sybil understood from the sound of his voice, from all her childhood years of experience, that he was welcoming a guest. Not his daughter. For a moment, she longed to spend even just a few seconds in her father's embrace, but the wish did not last long, driven away by the expected disappointment that had been building up inside of her for so long.

 

Her head turned away from her father, the uncomfortable tension too much to maintain, and Sybil could just see Mary's hand slipping from Tom's shoulder, and her smile faltered as she looked at their father.

 

Tom walked up to Sybil's side, unsure, but with determined steps. This was not the big fight. The big fight had been the night in the drawing room, sharing their well-kept secret, breaking out the fire that was her father's rage.

 

The damage was done already. So, when Tom walked up to Sybil's side, she could detect no fear in his eyes, no humiliation, no intimidation. Surely enough, he was nervous and uncomfortable facing his father-in-law in this moment, but Sybil felt her chest swell with pride as her husband looked straight into her father's eyes.

 

Robert's only response was a curt nod. No outstretched hand like he had forced himself to do back on the graveyard almost a year ago, and this proved to Sybil that his blessing had changed nothing about his attitude towards her choice.

 

“Let's get you into your room, you must be so exhausted,” Cora interrupted the heavy silence, and Sybil turned away from her father to meet her mother's smile.

 

“Thank you,” she responded, smiling as Edith's hand on her shoulder gently steered her into the direction of the door.

 

As her and Tom followed her mother and sisters up the stone steps and through the heavy door into the house, Sybil's fingers found Tom's, and his tight squeeze was enough to replace all the words that lingered between them in this moment.

 

“Milady, Mr Branson” Carson said with a nod as they passed him, and Sybil found it difficult to accept the stiff politeness in his voice, lacking much of the warmth she knew he was so well capable of.

 

“We thought we'd put you into your old room,” Cora went on as the small group passed the door to the small library and finally stepped into the hall, illuminated from the bright glow of the scattered rays of sunlight shining through the glass ceiling, and Sybil felt a small part inside of her, the part that had been aching so terribly over Christmas, rest in peace.

 

-

 

Tom stood at the wide window, his eyes resting on the fields and hills of green that stretched out far beyond the gravel path that he could still make out below the window. The sun had come out more fully, although some scattered, and slowly approaching grey clouds in the distance promised a darker sky sooner than later.

 

The exhaustion from the long journey spread through his legs like a slow disease, and he longed to simply lean his weight against the pristinely wide wooden planks that framed the broad window.

 

He did not dare. Turning his head away from the window, Tom once again tried to take in the room that used to belong to Sybil alone, the room that they would share for the uncertain amount of time that it took for the turmoil back home to calm a little. _Home_. He could not imagine calling this home. He felt so utterly lost in the high, brightly lit room, almost like a beggar told to live in a palace filled to the brim with gold and jewels.

 

The long curtains, just barely touching the soft, carpeted floor – so soft he felt himself sink in under his weight – were so delicate, tendrils of softly coloured flowers tangling their way to the floor. They reminded him of the Sybil he had first met, all those years ago. Reminded him of bright blue trousers and a floral dress brushing against his stiff uniform in the summer breeze.

 

The strong and dark desk by the equally sturdy wardrobe seemed so unlike Sybil, so ancient and bound to the time they had seen pass by without a doubt. It was not the type of furniture Sybil would have chosen for herself, yet they bore a certain trance in them, the sleek surface begging to be touched.

 

No matter how hard he tried, Tom could not imagine Sybil sitting at this desk, her delicate fingers pinning down letters and adjusting pristine sheets of paper. The fresh bouquet of flowers that rested on top of the desk in a filigree glass vase almost melted into the light beige of the wall behind it, creating one smooth picture that appeared to Tom more like a delicate painting than the actual reality before his eyes.

 

His eyes came to rest on the canopy bed that occupied most of the large room, heavy, massive, so big it would fill out most of their bedroom back in Dublin. He felt a surge of sadness overcome him like a shiver in the cold, and it reminded him of his first few days here at Downton, all those years ago. Far away from home, so terribly lonely, _so_ young and full of words he wanted to say.

 

Sybil had eased some of the pain the distance that stretched all the way across the Irish Sea had caused, her smile and enthusiasm, her encouragement and investment. The promise she had always embodied in his eyes, the promise of a better, brighter, fairer future.

 

Tom shook his head slightly, knowing he would probably find no sleep in this bed tonight, no matter how exhausted he was. The richly embroidered duvet, the floral cushions, so alike the heavy curtains that were so close to him right now. Everything seemed surreal, as if a glass wall was built between him and this room, the inside of this house that he had so rarely seen, never touched, never lived.

 

In a painful way, the tall and impressive bed reminded him of poor William. Although he never had a chance to see him before his death, Tom knew from what his former colleagues had told him, that the family had allowed William to rest in one of the guest rooms, no doubt much alike this one. He had died there, much too soon.

 

Shaking his head, Tom suddenly felt very silly, comparing these two stories, that could not be any different. Still, he could not stop wondering if this would be his kiss of death. Not literally, although his father-in-law's threat to hunt him down with wild dogs was nothing he would forget any time soon. But in a certain way, he wondered if it would destroy the person he aspired to be. To adapt, to, at least superficially, make an effort to be a part of all _this_.

 

The white door the the bathroom opened just as Tom's eyes took in the heavily ornamented fireplace, the prepared stack of firewood just waiting to be lit.

 

“Are you alright?” Sybil asked she she walked back into her old room, kneading her bare fingers. She looked at him worryingly suspicious, stepping up to her bed to slide her fingers across her coat which was neatly placed on the duvet.

 

“I am,” Tom reassured her, awkwardly stepping away from the window, somehow feeling like a schoolboy again, caught doing something he should rather have stayed away from.

 

“Why aren't you sitting down?” Sybil asked, leaning against the thin, wooden bedpost, “If you are even half as tired as I am you might as well be sleepwalking by now.”

 

Tom chuckled, taking another step on the incredibly soft carpet, following the line of the sunshine that shone through the window.

 

“I don't want to risk breaking anything,” he said casually, not quite able to entirely pull of the disguise of a joke. He waved his hand into the direction of the two soft chair by the fireplace, cushions perfectly placed upon them, no doubt heavenly comfortable. The pale yellow reminded Tom of his childhood kitchen, even though back then the wallpaper had been peeling off the wall in all corners.

 

“Don't be silly, Tom,” Sybil said lightly and with a genuine smile, “Nothing in here is as breakable as it looks. With the exception of the vases, perhaps, by I trust your sanity not to take a seat on them.”

 

The two of them began laughing, the sound so foreign to their ears these days, and quickly they found themselves falling into a thick silence. Tom wondered if Sybil could feel the same vain guilt that crept up to him. He knew there was no law, no moral code, nothing in the world forbidding him, forbidding them, to be joyful and happy against after Sean's death. Nevertheless, he could feel that the time was not quite there yet to fall back into those old, familiar, happy patterns they had built between them over the last year.

 

“I know it must be terribly awkward and intimidating,” Sybil broke the silence with a quiet, yet deliberate phrase of compassion, walking over towards Tom, “But this is our room now. Not just mine, but yours, as well. Don't be afraid.”

 

Tom sighed at her words, reaching out to pull her into his arms. She may have been part of all of this once, and to a certain extent still was, and would always be. Yet, she seemed to be the only glimpse that was real and true and good. Her body in his arms, her hands wrapped around his waist, the swell of her stomach pressed gently against his midsection, the calming smell of her hair, the even sound of her breathing.

 

They were in this together, no matter what. Sybil was not a doll, not a part of this stage setting that seemed to make up the world behind the thick stone walls of this ancient house. She was real, and she was his wife. She had chosen him, over all of this.

 

As the realization set in, Tom began to feel himself relaxing, the prospect of sitting down in one of the plush seats slowly becoming more and more appealing.

 

“So, dinner?” he asked, looking down to meet Sybil's apologetic glance.

 

“I'm so sorry,” she mumbled, digging her fingers into the rough fabric of his coat, “I did not even think about that. But you'll be fine. You know Granny, so be prepared, but... Things could have been much worse, don't you think?”

 

Her voice had become slower, quieter, as if she had carefully considered each and every word that passed her lips. Tom nodded. She was right. None of the horrendous scenarios that he had mapped out in his head – and he was sure Sybil had done nothing less – had turned out to become a cruel reality.

 

His mother-in-law's approach at a more personal relationship, away from the master-servant boundaries that she had maintained so carefully up until the moment she asked him to address her by her first name. The friendly, if stiff welcome he had received by his sisters-in-law, which had reminded him much of their visit to Dublin for the wedding last summer. He knew it had been for Sybil, was still only for Sybil, but he was grateful for that. If anything, he was not stupid, and he knew that he would never be accepted as part of this family like Sybil had been welcomed into his. He felt no need for that, anyway. All he wanted was for Sybil to stay part of her family. To not be cast off, and to not cast herself off.

 

That her father did not even have a single smile to offer for his youngest daughter had been expected, but it made Tom furious nonetheless. Most especially now that he could feel the swell of Sybil's stomach between them, their own child protected and loved so much already.

 

“You're right,” he finally said, realizing that his thoughts had taken him away from the brightly lit room and the woman he loved looking up at him expectantly, “It's not so much your grandmother that is worrying me.”

 

“What else could it possibly be?” Sybil asked, laughing as Tom grinned at her. It was still true. All those years he had driven the Dowager Countess from one place to the other, had listened in to her wit and spite. He could not pretend to know her, or to be in any way prepared for what he would have to face later on. But the one thing he trusted, the one thing he believed his judgement could be trusted with, was that she was a good person, had a good heart, and cared very much for her family.

 

“You'll do just fine,” Sybil reassured him, resting her cool palm against his cheek, “You served a table before, you know how most things work, and I'm right there to help you. It's really terribly simple once you memorize a handful of rules.”

 

“I don't even have anything to wear,” he protested, already seeing himself standing in the drawing room as much out of place as he had that night they had announced their plans to Sybil's family. As glad as he had been to finally be able to speak out, to hold Sybil's hand without fearing to be spotted by anyone, he did not feel very eager to be reminded of that night again.

 

“Neither do I,” Sybil replied, propping her chin against his chest, “You did not really think I would still fit into any of my old dresses?”

 

“Well, perhaps it will be quite interesting,” Tom sighed, silently accepting that he had no other choice but brave the storm that was slowly brewing more and more with each tick of the clock.

 

“I simply can not wait for it to be over,” Sybil murmured into his shirt, and he could see, as he peeked down, that her eyes were shut, her eyelashes long and thick against the white of his shirt, “I am looking forward to seeing Matthew and Granny and Cousin Isobel again, but I'm so terribly tired.”

 

“You should rest.,” he whispered, gently smoothing his hands down her back, pressing a light kiss on the top of her head.

 

“Anna should be here any minute.”

 

“Already?” Tom asked, confused as he turned slightly to see the sun still shining brightly high in the sky, the dark clouds he had spotted earlier still continuing their threatening, slow approach.

 

“Yes,” Sybil sighed, slowly and unwillingly loosening their embrace. She looked up at Tom almost shyly, and he knew there was more she wanted to say, “And, they might send a footman for you.”

 

Tom's eyes widened, and he dropped his arms from around Sybil's waist.

 

“What on Earth would I need a footman for? I can dress myself.”

 

“I know,” Sybil replied, the hint of sadness he had seen on her face earlier as they had passed her father slowly beginning to gloom in her eyes once more, “But... Perhaps for now it's best to simply go along with everything.”

 

They looked at each other for a long moment, and Tom understood her intention. Refusing to adapt would only give her family more reason to despise him, to blame him for the decision Sybil had made, and for the way her life was now playing out.

 

“Heavens,” he exclaimed, shaking his head, but offering Sybil an encouraging smile. The relief washed over her so evidently that Tom could almost see the veil of shadow being lifted from her, and he kissed her forehead feather-lightly, his lips lingering against her soft skin.

 

.:.

 

The drawing room was clouded with a familiar warmth, and not even the high ceilings were able to ease the feeling of narrowness created by the small crowd of people occupying the seats and sofa.

 

Sybil eyed Tom for a moment as she smoothed out the skirt of her dress with her silk-gloved fingers. He was sitting by her side on the plush sofa, his hands uneasily pressing into his thighs, and as she followed his gaze, found herself counting the millions of tiny lights reflected in the large chandelier.

 

The murmur of conversation that filled the room did not register in Sybil's ears, years of practise on how to take her mind off the constant humming now granting her a moment to take in her husband.

 

He looked nervous, tense in his best suit, and Sybil wanted so much to lean against his shoulder and forget all about the waking hours that still stretched out before them like a long road, lined by fading lights.

 

She could feel a surge of pride wash over her as she recalled how confident he had appeared ever since the moment they had left their room, dressed disastrously inappropriate for the occasion, welcoming Matthew and his mother in the hall before even getting a chance to approach the drawing room.

 

When her grandmother had arrived, surrounded by the sense of authority that had intimidated Sybil so very much as a child, she had chastely squeezed Tom's hand behind his back. With nothing but an encouraging smile to offer before her grandmother welcomed her with a gentle but brief embrace, Sybil had felt, if only for a short moment, like she was abandoning her husband's side. However, he had fought this small battle well enough by himself.

 

Ever since she could remember, Sybil had doubted that there was a match for her grandmother out there in the small world she had been allowed to know. And even if that was true, she trusted Tom's ability to defend himself, to stand up for who he was and what he believed in, and to not be crushed by the impact of a few words that carried more than just the plainly obvious meaning.

 

“So, Sybil, darling,” Cora said with a kind smile as she sat down next to Sybil, gently reaching out a hand to briefly touch her youngest daughter's shoulder, interrupting her thoughts “How are you feeling? Are you well?”

 

Sybil focussed on her mother, noticing how the constant stream of murmuring in the room suddenly died down.

 

“I am,” she answered with a similar kind smile to that of her mother, resting her fidgety hands in her lap, “I'm feeling rather tired lately, but nothing I couldn't manage.”

 

“And how far along are you exactly?” Isobel asked, sitting in one of the chairs by the fireplace. Sybil was about to answer, noticing Tom relaxing a little by her side, when her grandmother spoke first.

 

“Exactly? Heavens, how far into detail are you planning to go?”

 

The room was quiet for a few moments, before Sybil broke the silence, having learned all her life long that not all of her grandmother's comments needed to be addressed any further.

 

“My doctor in Dublin says I'm due in June.”

 

“Wonderful,” Cora exclaimed, “So there won't be any trouble with the wedding.”

 

Sybil turned to smile excitedly at Mary, who, sitting next to Matthew, appeared so much calmer, so much softer than Sybil could recall her looking in many years.

 

“How did your first few months go?” Isobel inquired further, and as Sybil turned to face Matthew's mother, she could see a glimpse of her grandmother's eyebrow twitching. Something about this – although naturally a conversation like this had never taken place in this room in her lifetime – felt so familiar, that Sybil began to feel herself warming up.

 

“I had terrible headaches,” she replied, casting a glance at Tom, who nodded affirmatively, “But everything is fine now.”

 

“I had awful headaches when I was pregnant with Edith, didn't I, Robert?”

 

“Hmm,” her father mumbled, leaning against the mantelpiece of the fireplace with his eyes fixated on the door to the main hall. Sybil could almost hear his mind silently cursing the time away, each tick of the clock until the door would open and Carson would call them all in for dinner.

 

“Have you thought about names yet?” Edith asked, seeming unusually bright and excited, offering Tom a kind smile, which Sybil was pleased to see he cast back at his sister-in-law genuinely.

 

“Not yet,” she answered her sister, only now properly realizing that they had not given much thought to this topic at all, “We didn't really have the time.”

 

Her quiet words seemed to remind everyone in the room, including herself and Tom, of the reasoning behind their stay, the trigger for their journey, the dark cloud that marked their arrival.

 

Briefly, her eyes met Tom's, and in them, Sybil could almost grasp the agony of grief, the fleeting image of Sean and the passion in his eyes.

 

“Terrible, of course,” Violet noted, eyeing Tom with genuine compassion, yet a hint of suspicion in her glance, “To hear about your cousin. And he had family?”

 

“He did,” Tom confirmed, his voice still aching with defeat, “Two children.”

 

“Terrible,” Matthew commented, shaking his head slightly. Sybil was grateful for her cousin's obvious lack of distrust and suspicion towards Tom. Perhaps, she wondered, they were in fact very much alike, even though they came from such different backgrounds and families. But to Matthew, this world had been just as foreign as it now was to Tom, and he had fought long and hard not only to find his place, but to be granted that place peacefully and gladly by everyone else. “I've been reading a lot, but nothing seems to be really clear about what is truly going on over there. Is it as chaotic as it seems?”

 

“It's getting worse every day,” Tom replied, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Sybil could dully hear gun shots, shouts and the piercing sounds of children crying.

 

“Cora, have you talked to Vasset about the flowers for the wedding yet?” Robert inquired suddenly, his voice much louder than necessary, his words, although addressing his wife, clearly meant to be heard by everyone in the room. Sybil could only vaguely hear her mother's sigh as she stood gracefully from the sofa and walked over to the fireplace, her every step watched carefully by Violet.

 

Watching her parents talk quietly to each other, Sybil wondered how much influence her mother could really have on her father, and how far she was able to nudge him into accepting the situation for what it was. Reality.

 

Sybil was distracted when Mary sat down next to her, smiling carefully. She did not acknowledge Tom's presence, but Sybil was grateful for his sister's attempt at approaching him earlier. They had known it would be a long and rocky road, and to see her sisters making first shaky steps on their own accord filled Sybil with a sense of hope that would crumble into ashes again when looking at her quietly arguing parents.

 

“I'm glad you're here,” Mary confessed, quietly enough to be directed solely at Sybil, but loud enough for everyone else to hear.

 

“Thank you,” Sybil whispered, smiling chastely as her sister rested her gloved hand against her forearm. The two sisters – eldest and youngest – looked at each other for a moment, a sense of acceptance glistering in Mary's sharp eyes.

 

“How is your mother doing, Tom?” Edith asked, apparently also attempting to shield herself from their parents' argument, “She was so kind when we came over.”

 

Sybil smiled fondly at the memory of her sisters sitting around a small table, Tom's mother serving tea and speaking to them as if there were neither money nor titles separating the three women. Mary had been careful, keeping her distance, but never openly allowing her suspicions to show, while Edith had embraced the hospitality, and had quickly fallen into an easy conversation.

 

“She's doing alright,” Tom told Edith, while Sybil found her mind wondering off to her mother-in-law across the stormy sea, their empty flat and the broken street light, “She is taking the whole thing very hard, but she's going to come through it.”

 

Edith nodded empathetically, just as Cora left Robert standing by the fireplace by himself, and stepped next to Edith, the smile back on her face.

 

“We will absolutely have to take you to Mrs Swann, the both of you,” she announced, waving her hand at Sybil and Tom, who looked at Sybil somewhat doubtfully as she turned to him briefly.

 

“Mama-” she began to complain, feeling somehow crushed by the prospect of dress fittings, and putting Tom in clothes he would never feel comfortable in. However, her mother's raised hand silenced her.

 

“Believe me, darling,” she explained, the smile fading into an expression of motherly advice, warm-hearted, but stern nonetheless, “Soon you'll appreciate nothing more than a proper fitting frock.”

 

“You might want to listen to Mama when it comes to this,” Mary chuckled, pushing herself off the sofa to make room for their mother again.

 

“I quite agree,” Isobel said, “You'll feel much more comfortable, especially in a few months time.”

 

“I'll make an appointment for a fitting as soon as possible,” Cora continued as she sat down again, and Sybil's dawning protest was immediately muted by her mother's continuing planning, “It'll be nice to take a drive, maybe Mary and Edith could come along and we can start thinking about what you and Edith will wear for the wedding.”

 

“Tom will need something to wear, as well, but we can manage Mama, there's really no need to-” Sybil began another attempt to assure her mother that there was no need for her to arrange fittings, but once more, her words were cut off.

 

In a different situation, she might have been much more vocal about her dislike of the prospect. Would have raised her own voice for everyone in the room to hear. However, in this moment, Sybil recalled what she had been telling herself earlier, what advice she had given Tom. For now, this was not a battle worth fighting.

 

“Sybil, dear. It's only some comfortable frocks for you, and some suits.”

 

“I have a fitting later this month, maybe it would be possible that you come along with me,” Matthew added quickly, directing his words at Tom, who looked at him in surprise.

 

“I, ehm,” he stuttered for a moment, “Thank you.”

 

“All this talk of dressing up, one might think the circus is in town.”

 

Sybil rolled her eyes at her grandmother’s words, instead casting a grateful smile at Matthew. She hoped her suspicions were true, and that he and Tom had more in common than was to see at first. After all, she knew how to handle herself, and who was willing to tolerate the decision she had made. For Tom, however, she wished nothing more than someone who accepted him here, if only a little bit.

 

“I have thought a little about where we could set up the nursery, and-” Cora continued, completely overwhelming Sybil with her contemplative, but nonetheless excited words.

 

“Mama, we don't even know yet how long we are going to stay here for.”

 

“But surely you won't be travelling all the long way back to Dublin before the baby is born?” she asked, the question too demanding to be simply that.

 

“No.”

 

“There. I have some ideas, we could talk about that tomorrow.”

 

For a moment, Sybil felt her life and her decision, her voice, slipping through her fingers and back into the tightly knitted web that had held her back for all those years. Maybe she was strong enough now that she had seen beyond it, now that she knew how to free herself. Looking at Tom, the two of them shared equal looks of exhaustion, disapproval and defeat.

 

She did not blame her mother. After all, the baby growing inside of her in this very moment was not only her son or daughter, but her own mother's first grandchild. The enthusiasm was much more dense than Sybil had expected, but she found herself content with her mother's avid plans, knowing they did not strive from a wish to control her, but from the excitement of a new family member.

 

“Why not fix a cottage while we're at it?” Violet proposed with a chuckle, smiling kindly at Sybil.

 

“That might be the best idea after all,” Robert said, plainly to himself but loud enough for the rest of his family to hear, and his ability to turn his mother's words into something so clouded with negativity and spite feeling like a harsh blow of wind was almost shocking. Sybil looked at her father, whose back was turned to her, in disbelief.

 

For a brief moment, she ached to let her eyes wonder across the room and take in everyone else’s reaction, but the sound of the large white door opening seemed to erase everybody's expression immediately, muting the aftermath of her father's words.

 

“Dinner is served.”

 


	8. things past

_Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were._

**Marcel Proust**

 

Stretching out his legs under the heavy duvet, Tom could not keep his hands still any less, smoothing his palms over the smooth, silky fabric, so cool in comparison to the heat that seemed to radiate from its other side.

 

“What's the matter?” Sybil asked as she stepped away from the dressing table, her nightdress flowing around her as softly as mist, and Tom could not keep his eyes off her as she slipped under the duvet next to him, her pale features illuminated by the dim glow of the small lamps on the bedside tables.

 

“The bed is so soft,” Tom replied quietly, pushing his bare feet deeply into the mattress. He wondered how anyone could find this comfortable, while the feeling of being swallowed by the mattress reminded him of nothing more than quicksand, or what he imagined it must feel like.

 

“They all are.”

 

The bed gave in a little as Sybil climbed fully under the duvet, pulling it up against her body, the soft tendrils of her hair falling over her shoulder in a much more sophisticated braid than she usually wore to bed.

 

“This is so strange,” Tom said with a voice so quiet that he wondered if Sybil had even heard him when she remained silent for a few moments. He could not quite tell why he felt so intimidated by the vastness of the room, even more evident now that he sat in bed, surrounded by the room fully. For a moment, Tom felt reminded of the feeling of stepping into a church - the sudden respect, the sudden urge to not utter a word, the serene but almost frightening silence.

 

“What is?” Sybil asked, kneading a thick, white lotion into the palms of her hands, the smell reminding Tom of summer, of fields of green and long, warm nights that would never fully be disrupted by darkness.

 

“Laying here, when you spent all those nights I was laying awake in my cottage thinking about you right here,” he explained, his memory replaying all those years of sleepless nights in which he had wondered, waited and wished, “And now we're here together.”

 

“What were you thinking about?” Sybil asked, her voice as much a whisper as Tom's had been moments ago, although so much softer and gentler. She leaned slightly on her side, resting her now shining hands against the duvet, her head slightly cocked to one side as she looked at Tom. A mellow smile fluttered across her lips.

 

He reached out, trailing his fingers against her hands absent-mindedly.

 

“You. Everything about you. Whether you would ever think I could be good enough for you.”

 

Sybil took a strong hold of his wandering hand, wrapping it up in both of hers. The palms of her hand were even softer than usual, so much warmer than they could ever be in the coldness of their bedroom in Dublin. Tom felt utterly conflicted, a sudden guilt creeping up his spine that he could not keep his wife warmer and safer, while he could not suppress the longing to feel her hands glide up his arms, wrapping around his neck and resting against his face, to feel her more fully, to be closer to her. Always closer.

 

“I never doubted that for one second, Tom,” Sybil insisted, and Tom needed a second to remember his own words and give her reply a meaning, his mind so distracted by her soft fingers brushing ever so slightly against the back of his hand.

 

“It's what I told myself, anyway,” he muttered, feeling the echo of the dull ache in his chest that had robbed him of his sleep for such an agonizingly long time. It had been a while since he had fully recalled how much pain her hesitancy had caused him, how many waking hours he had considered leaving it all behind to protect himself, to not give her a chance to break his heart.

 

“Well, we're here now, that is what matters,” Sybil said defiantly, Tom's response being a mere faint smile as he took in the dark lines around her eyes.

 

“You look so tired.”

 

“I am.”

 

“We should go to sleep, then.”

 

He pulled his hand out of Sybil's soft grasp, shuffling around under the duvet a little more, desperate but unable to find a more comfortable position.

 

“We should,” Sybil agreed, resting her head against the headboard as she watched Tom carefully, “Are you feeling alright?”

 

“Of course, why wouldn't I?”

 

“Tonight, it must have been a lot to take in.”

 

Tom sighed at her words, leaning his own head against the headboard. Knowing that he would only find the worry on Sybil's face that he regretted so much having caused against his will, his eyes wandered across the shadows cast against the closed curtains, not a flicker of moonlight shining through.

 

No matter how many times he had cursed it, all of a sudden he longed for the too-small curtains in their small bedroom in Dublin, the moonlight and flickers of street lights never quite allowing full darkness to take over the room. The complete barricade that was formed by these curtains made him feel trapped, not a tiniest hint that a world outside of these walls even existed or was allowed to break through.

 

“Well, since nobody seemed to really take notice of me, I should think everything went better than we feared, don't you agree?” he finally replied, the past few hours replaying in his mind piece by piece. He had been truly grateful to be ignored for the most part of the evening, to only be addressed a few times and to be largely kept out of conversations that he had no means to keep up.

 

Mr. Carson had offered him not a single glance, and Tom was sure it was not his meticulous attention to the progressing of the dinner that had caused the dismissal of Tom's presence. He had been utterly grateful that he had never met the new footmen, for the mere idea of being served dinner by Thomas seemed so far-fetched that it was nearly hilarious.

 

It had been during dinner, everyone else busy with conversation and his own name only falling a few times, that Tom had realized how very little contact he would have with his former colleagues. For the first time, it had truly dawned on him how everything that kept the house running happened between closed doors, in the dark of the night and the early hours of the morning, in the absence of anyone's presence, in scattered minutes that could be spared.

 

He had no more business in the kitchen, in the servant's hall. He did not know either of the new footmen, and apart from them, only Mr. Carson seemed to really be present in the charade he had felt himself being sucked into. Briefly, he had seen Anna as she had stepped into Sybil's bedroom, _their_ bedroom, to assist Sybil getting ready for dinner. Kind Anna, who had offered him a bright smile and a compassionate nod. Who else was there for him to cross paths with? Perhaps Mrs. Hughes, he wondered, losing himself in his thoughts.

 

“I'm so sorry,” Sybil whispered, her voice so sincere that it almost overwhelmed Tom. He turned to look at her, prepared for the worry, but not the unexplainable guilt he found in the dark pools of her eyes.

 

“Whatever for?”

 

“For them.”

 

“Darling, nothing happened,” he sighed, reaching out to reclaim his hold on Sybil's warm hands, “Your father did not try to stab me with the fish knife, everything is fine.”

 

She laughed softly, not as much as he loved so dearly, but just enough to make him feel like he accomplished at least a little.

 

“That is true. But he... Tom, I don't think he'll ever come around,” she continued, and Tom understood exactly whom she meant. Her father's blunt ignorance of their presence had been edging around the lines of being rude, and Tom could not imagine what Sybil must feel like, being treated as such by her father, “He didn't look at me for one second, and he was so... cold. I've never seen him like that before. He doesn't want you here, and he doesn't want me here, either.”

 

It hurt to admit it to himself, but Tom found no words to say in this moment. There was no point in pretending that her father had not been acting in complete ignorance, and he felt no confidence in making promises he knew he could definitely not keep this time around. The tiny flicker of hope he still had, it was what urged him to rest his arm around Sybil's shoulders and pull her gently against him.

 

The moment her head came to rest against his chest, she seemed to relax, her palms pressing softly against his stomach.

 

“I'm so glad that Matthew was being so kind to you,” she murmured sleepily, and Tom felt anger surging inside of him at her father for keeping her mind so occupied when she should be resting.

 

He nodded, recalling Matthew being the one to address him a few times during dinner, asking him questions that he actually felt confident answering, including him in conversations he actually understood, unlike chatter and gossip about people he had never heard of and long, exhausting sharing of ideas for the wedding.

 

“He was,” he agreed, trailing his hand up and down Sybil's back,” He has always been very kind. I still recall that night you got injured at the count.”

 

The memory was as clear as day, as if it had been burned into his mind like a scar, never fully healing. Those cruel moments of fear, not for his job, not for himself, but for the young woman with so much passion and so much to live for, the woman he, in that moment, understood he could love if the world were a different place. It had taken him a while, months, perhaps years, and the spark that Sybil added to all his dreams and ambitions to make him hope that that world might be on the horizon, that he could love her in spite all of the reasons why he should not.

 

“When I took him back into the village that night, he told me that you were just fine, and he told me that if your father knew what was best for him, my position should be a safe one,” he continued, thinking back to that seemingly endless drive through the night, his hands trembling against the wheel, “Although I never quite understood what he meant, he wouldn't tell.”

 

“I threatened to run away if he fired you,” Sybil explained, and Tom, as confused as he was, cherished that he could hear the smile in her words.

 

“You did?” he asked, suddenly imagining the younger Sybil he had known standing up to her father because of the chauffeur, “Why on Earth would you do that?”

 

“Because none of it was your fault, I tricked you into taking me there. I couldn't have lived with myself knowing you lost your position because of me.”

 

“Where would you have run off to?” he asked quietly, his imagination running wild, fed with memories of promises to stay until she changed her mind, with glimpses of stealing his employer's car and driving through the dark night up North.

 

“Who knows. I hit my head, remember? Maybe I was being a little delusional,” Sybil explained, laughing softly, and Tom joined in as her body rocked gently against his.

 

“You two are quite alike, actually,” Sybil murmured as her laughter had died down, readjusting her head against his chest, breathing steadily alongside him.

 

“Matthew and I?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“We are?” Tom asked, failing to see any resemblance between Matthew Crawley and himself. He liked him, yes; he had always liked him, much more than other members of the family. Never, though, had he seen any significant similarities between them.

 

“Yes. When he first came here, after James and Patrick died, nobody really wanted him here. He was the new heir, the man to take away what everyone believed should go to Mary one day, and he simply did not fit in. This was not his world.”

 

“He didn't drive your father about, though,” Tom chuckled, moving a stray curl of Sybil's hair away from her cheek.

 

“No, he didn't. But still. In certain ways, you are very alike.”

 

“More in what happened to us,” Tom mused, for the first time really letting the fact sink in that Matthew had not been born the heir to all this, but had become so through other men's misfortune.

 

“Oh, so _I_ happened to you?” Sybil chuckled, propping her chin against his breast bone to look up at him, the smirk on her face reflecting his own.

 

For a moment, he listened to the clear sound of her laughter, before he gently pressed his fingertips against her plump lips.

 

“You are the best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispered, leaning to replace his fingers with his lips, softly pressing them against hers. Sybil sighed as they parted, and she snuggled closer against his side.

 

“At least Granny wasn't being too forward.”

 

“I was surprised,” Tom confessed, having been prepared for much more of the Dowager Countess' commentaries. However, she, too, had not paid much attention to him at all, every now and then throwing him a stern look when Sybil had to discretely help him with the dinner procession.

 

“I suppose we should be grateful that the wedding gave everyone enough to talk about. Let's not assume that she'll be this peaceful for much longer,” Sybil went on, the mixture of annoyance and defeat in her voice ruining whatever lighter mood had finally settled around them earlier.

 

“I will try to be prepared.”

 

“As odd as it may sound, I truly think she likes you.”

 

“The chauffeur marrying her youngest grandchild?” Tom asked with a chuckle, surprised by the sincerity behind Sybil's words.

 

“No, not that part,” she began to explain, her fingers beginning to trail over his ribcage, “But she very easily dislikes people. She may not approve of you, but I believe she is quite alright with who you are. She'll never want you as my husband. Or as a part of the family that she will have to explain to everyone. But, truly, she does not despise you.”

 

“I'll take that as a compliment, then.”

 

“Never forget it, no matter what she says,” Sybil murmured, the mocking emphasis and theatrics in her voice causing Tom to chuckle.

 

“I must apologize for my mother. I have no idea what she is trying to achieve with all this sudden enthusiasm,” Sybil went on, shaking her head slightly while it still rested against Tom's chest.

 

“Be glad,” he said quietly, once more unsure of what to say to her.

 

“I simply don't trust it,” she stated, “The only explanation I have is that she is trying to make herself accept the situation by pretending that she already has.”

 

“Maybe she has.”

 

“Even if she has, it makes me so furious that she is taking over everything – even the nursery. Shouldn't we wait a little longer before we start worrying about that?”

 

“Would you have waited if we had moved into a new flat?” Tom asked tentatively, not wanting to enrage Sybil by making her believe he was on her mother's side.

 

“Don't make me feel bad for being angry with her,” Sybil warned him, but he could hear the slight hint of mockery in her voice, “I'm just scared that she's taking over my life again.”

 

“She won't. Only if you let her.”

 

“I feel like I'm walking on such a thin line,” she went on, despair in her voice, the movement of her fingers against his chest ceasing slowly, “They're allowing us to stay here, and I am grateful for that. But at the same time I feel so ungrateful because we have only been here for a few hours and already I am refusing them.”

 

“You've had a very different life for the last year, and you are tired. Not just from the travel, but everything that has happened lately. They can't chain you to this life like they might have once. Don't be scared. And don't blame yourself, or them. Let's just take this one day at a time.”

 

Tom kept his voice low, soothing, once again picking up his habit of gently stroking her back. The two of them fell into silence after that, only their breathing between them, and he began to wonder if she had fallen asleep just as her tired voice mumbled against his chest once more.

 

“Edith's question made me wonder.”

 

“Hmm?” Tom hummed, trying to recall what Sybil was talking about.

 

“We haven't discussed any names at all.”

 

He remembered then, the flicker of realization he had felt himself when his sister-in-law had brought up the subject. It was true; they had not given a single thought about naming their child.

 

“There's no rush,” he claimed, suddenly not sure why they had not discussed this before, “But if you want to, we always can.”

 

Sybil nodded, and for a moment, Tom's thoughts wandered back to the moment on the ferry, standing in the wind with the smell of the sea filling his nostrils. The moment he had felt their child move, live, underneath Sybil's skin for the very first time. There was no rush to find a name, but now that he considered it truly for the first time, he wondered if they could ever find a name beautiful enough for their child, meaningful enough for their child, completely and utterly worthy of the miracle that was the baby sleeping inside of the woman he loved so much.

 

“I wonder what makes me so sure it will b a girl?” Sybil wondered after a few moments of silence.

 

“I'm wouldn't know,” Tom whispered truthfully, unable to explain how he felt about this, why he himself kept seeing a little dark haired girl with Sybil's deep and thoughtful eyes, wise beyond her years, whenever he really imagined what it would be like to have a child of his own.

 

“Would it bother you very much?” Sybil asked, and her voice dropping slightly as she turned to look up at him.

 

“What?”

 

“If it's not a boy.”

 

“It wouldn't bother me at all, darling,” Tom reassured her, resting his palm against her cheek, “Don't you worry about that for one second. Of course the prospect of having a son is extraordinary, but so is that of having a daughter. This is our child, Sybil. That is all that matters.”

 

He leaned down to kiss her briefly, the press of his lips harder than intended, and he relished in the soft hum in the back of Sybil's throat.

 

“I want our child to have an Irish name, Tom,” she whispered breathlessly against his lips as they parted, skin still damp, each other's touch lingering.

 

“You do?”

 

He would not have insisted on it. No. Not when Sybil was the one who, in a few months time, would have to give birth to their child. Still, to hear her say this meant more to Tom than he could really put into words, so instead, he smiled lovingly at his wife, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone.

 

“Yes,” Sybil replied in a whisper, leaning further into his touch, “We will go back. It's our home. I want to raise our child there, and I want him or her to fit in, to really belong there, despite being the grandchild of an English earl. I do not want our child to face the same troubles I have. I want a better world, and a better life, I want our child to truly belong, Tom.”

 

“I love you,” Tom whispered, releasing his chaste hold on Sybil's face to allow her to snuggle against him even tighter, their legs intertwining as she rested her head in the crook of his neck.

 

“You will have to help me out,” she murmured against his skin, sending an unnerving rush of goosebumps and shivers down his spine.

 

“With what?”

 

“The name, of course.”

 

“Now?” Tom asked, feeling his eyelids becoming heavier and heavier, pulled down by invisible weights of iron with every breath he took.

 

“We don't need to decide now, silly. But I'd love to hear a name or two. Just to see what we are looking for,” Sybil explained, despite the exhausted slur in her voice sounding so excited that Tom could not refuse her.

 

His mind began to race as he recalled friends and family members, colleagues, neighbours and acquaintances, their names and faces melting into one big blur instead of standing out crystal-clear.

 

“Well, I'm not really an expert when it comes to that,” he admitted, suddenly feeling terribly insecure. Should he have researched this? Should he have been more prepared? Should he be aware the meaning behind every name known to mankind?

 

“But you must know a few names.”

 

“Certainly.”

 

“Tell me,” Sybil urged him on softly, her soft lips pressing against his temple as she leaned back to look at him in anticipation.

 

“There's Maire,” he whispered, merely naming the first name that came into his mind.

 

“Sounds a lot like Maera, don't you think?”

 

“That's true,” he admitted, trying hard to concentrate despite the exhaustion that seemed to spread through his veins like a disease, “And I believe it has the same origin as Mary.”

 

Sybil chuckled, sifting her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

 

“I love my sister, but I am not sure how much she would appreciate that reference.”

 

It was Tom's turn to chuckle. The prospect of Lady Mary Crawley's face upon learning that her youngest sister and her Irish chauffeur of a husband had practically named their first born child after her was one he would rather not put to the test.

 

“What does it mean?” Sybil asked quietly as their laughter had died down, her voice calm, softened by the waking hours they had seen lately.

 

“I'm not sure. I think I heard somewhere once that it has something to do with the sea, but I can't be sure of that.”

 

“The sea?”

 

“Yes.”

 

For a few moments, they were both completely silent, and Tom was sure Sybil could hear the rush of the waves just as clearly as he could, could see the glistering of the horizon as the sun shone down upon the restless surface of the sea.

 

“It sounds too much like Maera,” Sybil finally decided, the determination behind her words making it clear that it was simply not an option. Too similar. The mere thought re-opened wounds that had had no proper time to heal yet.

 

“It does,” Tom agreed, a different name suddenly popping up in his memory, “There's Darcie.”

 

“Like Mr. Darcy?” Sybil giggled, and Tom smiled down at her.

 

“It's spelled differently,” he explained, a surge of gratefulness washing over him that despite everything that had happened, this part of Sybil had not been lost along the way. The part of Sybil that shocked her family in a pair of bright blue trousers, “It means dark.”

 

“Isn't that a little sinister?”

 

“Probably,” Tom murmured, the young, dark-haired girl wandering through his mind again, “There's Enda.”

 

“Enda?”

 

“Hmm. I think it might be connected to _ean_.”

 

“What does that mean?” Sybil asked, somehow wonderment lingering in her voice.

 

“Bird.”

 

“I like that,” she whispered, her eyes suddenly out of focus, almost in a daze, “I always wanted to be a bird when I was a child. They're free, free to go wherever they want.”

 

“You went where you wanted,” Tom murmured, leaning into the warmth that radiated from her body, “Maybe you turned out to become what you wanted.”

 

Sybil nudged her nose against his face, her hands wrapped tightly around his neck, and when she began to trail a line of feather-light kisses along his jaw, Tom found himself caught between exhaustion, and the pure devotion that filled him so completely.

 

“Is there another?” she whispered huskily, resting one of her hands on his shoulder to steady herself.

 

“Not any that would stand out. Nothing that would mean something. But as I said, I'm not an expert when it comes to names.”

 

“What does freedom mean in Gaelic?”

 

Her question came so suddenly, so determinedly that Tom wondered if it had lingered on her tongue for longer than just the last few minutes they had spent having this discussion. There seemed to be a story behind it, a long process of a growing idea in her mind and the sudden urge to simply and bluntly free herself of each syllable.

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

“I want a name with a meaning, and I liked Enda. The birds, the freedom that they embody. But what does freedom itself mean?”

 

“Saoirse,” Tom answered, plainly at first. It was not the first time he had translated things for her, and he was sure it would not be the last time. For a moment, it meant nothing to him, until a flash of black ink and the smell of freshly printed paper ripped through his memory, “I've heard it being used as a name.”

 

“Saoirse,” Sybil repeated quietly, the word sounding different coming from her lips, not quite the way it was intended, a bit bumpier but softer at the same time, “I like that.”

 

Tom said nothing, simply watching Sybil as she stared into nothingness, her lips still slightly parted. Hearing the word coming from her lips, he felt as though it would fit. The little girl in from his imagination, she seemed to embody _freedom_ more than anything he could hope and aim for in this world.

 

“If it's a boy, do you want to name him after your father?”

 

Sybil's words were hesitant, the topic of fathers seemingly loaded with burden these days. Looking down at the pale skin of Sybil's arm, Tom thought for a moment, relying on the handful of memories of his father that he had left.

 

“No,” he finally said, his determination only slightly, only barely clouded by the hint of his bad conscious.

 

“Why not?” Sybil asked carefully,.

 

“I don't really have many memories of him, but I know he was a good man. It seems like bad luck, though. He died so young.”

 

“Alright.”

 

The conversation seemed to have reached an end, Sybil's whisper barely audible as she rested her head back against Tom's shoulder.

 

“I can write to my mother. We'll find a name.”

 

“Can we wait for the baby to be born before we decide?” she asked sleepily, sighing as Tom rested his palm against her belly, “I would like to see him or her before we decide on a name.”

 

“Of course,” Tom whispered, kissing the top of her head, the even rise and fall of her chest telling him that she had already fallen asleep, “Good night.”

 

.:.

 

The preparations for the wedding proved to be the ideal circumstance for Sybil and Tom to dare their return to Downton.

 

Nobody seemed to waste a thought on anything else, every conversation dominated by guest lists and flowers, menus and music, decorations and arrangements, appointments and frocks, schedules and the seemingly endless list of things that still needed to be done.

 

Sybil and Tom felt different kinds of relief overcome them during the first few days that seemed to pass much quicker than anticipated, the rush and bustle of the big house and everyone in it so on edge and preparing for the big event always holding some task, some distraction, some straw to make the clock move faster.

 

For Sybil, it meant that she could always find something to do to fill the empty hours, a helping hand for her mother with the flower arrangements here, or a look over the menu there, or a walk in the rare spring sunlight with her sisters to discuss lace and cream and silk.

 

For Tom, it meant that there were dozens of things happening all around the house that drew everybody's attention away from him, that required everybody's focus on so many other subjects and matters rather than making life a whole lot harder for him.

 

Instead of the long and tiring arguments with his in-laws that Tom had expected and silently accepted, he now spent his time wandering around the long, dark corridors of Downton that he had so rarely seen, only ever just a glimpse of what lay behind those doors, all the secret and all the past lives that had been lived there. He found himself oddly fascinated by the history that appeared to be seeping out of each crack in the stones, a history he found himself too insulted by, a history so speckled with blood and pain and injustice.

 

Sybil made no secret out of her surprise that the two of them were not locked away with a tray in their room whenever there were other guests joining the family for dinner. With the wedding only a few weeks away, the house seemed to be invaded by guests, relatives and acquaintances causing a rush about dinner parties.

 

On these occasions, Tom was introduced as Sybil's husband, and the conversation quickly steered into a different direction, all attention meticulously driven away from the young Irish husband that nobody seemed to be able to place. Whenever a curious question did pop up, Robert was quick to interrupt, and Violet at the ready to give a quick, blurry answer that was never quite a lie and never quite the truth.

 

.:.

 

Moving his hands out of the pockets of his trousers, Tom opened the door to their bedroom, his neck stiff from another night of restless sleep.

 

Stepping into the room, flooded with the grey, lifeless light provided by the cloud-covered sky, Tom stopped in his tracks as he saw Sybil and Anna standing in front of the wardrobe.

 

“Oh, forgive me,” he apologized, making a move to turn back around, “I'll come back later.”

 

“No, it's alright,” Sybil told him, stepping away from Anna, smoothing her hands over the dark blue fabric of her coat, “We're done.”

 

Tom shut the white door behind him, his eyes following Anna as she collected Sybil's nightdress and dressing gown, carefully draping them over her lower arm.

 

“Thank you, Anna,” Sybil said with a kind smile, taking a blue hat from the back of a chair, twirling it in her gloved fingers.

 

Anna nodded, making her way to the door. Tom stepped aside, making room for the one colleague he had always felt most comfortable around, most welcomed and accepted by.

 

“Anna?” Sybil called as Anna wrapped her fingers around the door knob, “I'm sure it'll all turn out right.”

 

Sybil's voice was kind and caring, a reassuring and soft smile on her lips that was as far away from joy as the tears she had quietly shed the night before, the frustration of her father's rejection finally taking its toll on her. Tom had held her against him, helplessly listening to her quiet sobs, humming against her temple, fingers intertwined tightly with hers.

 

“Thank you, Milady,” Anna replied, her voice much quieter and unsteady than usual. Tom took a closer look at her, unsettled by the glassy look in her kind eyes.

 

With a last polite nod in Tom's direction, Anna stepped out of the room and into the empty corridor, quietly closing the door behind her.

 

“What was that all about?” Tom asked curiously as Sybil secured the plain hat on her head, her hair as meticulous as he had not seen it during the months they had lived in Dublin, not even on the day of their wedding, when her sisters had helped her.

 

“Bates is not in the best health,” she explained, her heavy sigh matching the exasperation on her face, “She's afraid if they won't get him out of prison soon, he might take a turn for the worse. I feel so dreadfully sorry for them.”

 

“It's terrible,” Tom agreed, stepping over the Sybil to softly draw her in for a kiss. The dark cloud of Bates' uncertain fate had lingered ever since they had arrived, not quite able to overcast the happiness and excitement caused by the anticipation of the wedding, but with enough impact to keep reminding everyone that nothing lasts and nothing in life was certain.

 

“When will you be back?” he asked, remembering now that today was Sybil's appointment for a dress fitting along with her mother and sisters.

 

“You know how long those dreadful fittings last, and it's the four of us going. We probably won't be back in time for luncheon,” Sybil replied, looking around in search for her bag, which hung from the side of the bed, blue and green embroidery against the rich cream of the duvet.

 

“So it's only your father and me?” he asked, his insides suddenly seeming to twitch and tumble at the thought of spending time alone with his father-in-law in one room, in the presence of knives and other sharp objects. He was not afraid of her father, no. Neither did he feel as intimidated by him as he could sense would be appropriate. Nevertheless, being ignored and ignoring him in return had worked out more than well for over a week now, and to change that state of semi-peace seemed like a rather reckless venture.

 

“You can ask for a tray, nobody is going to question that,” Sybil reassured him, opening her bag, rummaging through the small space with her fingertips.

 

“Least of all your father,” Tom muttered, already wondering if he could last until dinner with only the biscuit jar on the mantel piece, resenting the idea of ordering someone to prepare a tray for him alone. What would it sound like downstairs, when the former chauffeur ordered a tray for luncheon?

 

Sybil sighed at his hushed words, and she sat down on the edge of the bed, carelessly dumping her bag into her lap. Realizing his unfortunate choice of words, Tom walked over to her, sinking down onto the too soft mattress by her side.

 

“It'll be alright,” he reassured her, resting his palm flat against her back.

 

“I hope so.”

 

-

 

“I think it makes you look terribly pale,” Mary commented matter-of-factly, only really side glancing at Edith, who was wrapped in pale yellow silk. The skirt was too long, the sleeves too wide, and the embroidery lining the shoulders stood out much alike the spikes of an untrimmed hedge.

 

Mary's blatant disinterest in her sister's possible new frock was no change, no sensation, and neither was the way she seemed so utterly indulged in the pieces of fabric that were neatly placed on the small table in front of her. Silk and velvet, lace and cotton.

 

Sybil took in Edith as she stood in front of the large mirror, the back of the dress held together by one of Madame Swann's assistants, the dress beautiful in itself, but unflattering on her sister.

 

“I agree,” Cora said in reply to Mary, standing up from her plush chair to inspect a different angle of the dress, “The last one suited you much better, darling.”

 

“But don't you think it looked too much like Sybil's?” Edith asked, looking intently at her reflection in the tall mirror.

 

“Not at all,” Cora reassured her, apparently having firmly decided that the pale yellow dress was not an option, as she sat back down.

 

“I could always wear the purple one, it was quite comfortable,” Sybil commented, seeing the uncertainty in Edith's eyes that had become too familiar over the course of their lives. To attend their oldest sister's wedding in a frock that looked too much alike that of her younger sister, in the circumstances they were under, seemed to equalize disaster in Edith's eyes. Sybil was the one whose husband caused so many raised eyebrows and questions, Sybil was the one expecting a baby and having come to visit from her new home abroad, from a country that seemed to slip into war more and more with each passing day.

 

Sybil could see in Edith's eyes that she was comparing herself once more, seeing nothing as exiting in her life as Sybil's life seemed to burst with. To wear a similar dress meant to be swallowed by the crowds of people whose attention she so often longed for.

 

“Nonsense, the blue one was perfect for you,” Mary commented, picking up a pale peach-coloured stripe of silk, running her bare fingers along the shiny, smooth surface.

 

“The last one was the right one for you. It suited you. You look as pale as a ghost in this one,” their

mother continued, smiling kindly at Edith.

 

“I suppose,” Edith said rather quietly, nodding at the assistant to indicate that she would be taking the dress off. Following the small, elderly woman into the small dressing room, Edith cast one last glance into the mirror, a glance Sybil did not miss. She felt so dreadfully sorry for her sister, all her insecurities and feelings of not being accepted, not being noticed, amplified by the glorious shine cast upon their world by Mary's wedding. Mary, who had always stolen her thunder. Mary. Mary. Always Mary.

 

Sybil had felt quite guilty over the last weeks, knowing that her situation, her unaccepted marriage, uncertain future and pregnancy were drawing much attention onto herself, once more away from Edith.

 

Sir Anthony Strallan had been a more than frequent dinner guest, however, and Sybil could feel so much love and joy for her older sister whenever she saw the radiating happiness in her eyes, an emotion she had so rarely seen on Edith, and did not connect with her at all.

 

“Mary, dear, have you given any more thought about the veil?”Cora asked as Mary put down the peach silk, apparently unimpressed, but the smile on her face at their mother's words undoubtedly that of a happy bride.

 

“I have,” she confirmed, turning away from the table with fabric pieces to face Cora.

 

Sybil could not hear what Mary's words were after that, her eyes fixed on her sister's pale face, the bright, almost carefree smile so utterly new and fresh. It was the only difference to the past that Sybil could detect, so subtle, yet so beautiful, but at the same time gut-wrenchingly painful.

 

The last two hours spent dressing and undressing, holding fabric against fabric, sipping tea and discussing colours, shapes and embroidery, hats, jewels and shoes – it had all been the same, almost an exact duplicate of the many, many hours spent in this small, warm, brightly lit room with the red-carpeted floor, large mirror and plush chairs.

 

It seemed as if nothing at all had changed, as if the past year had never happened, and none of the changes it had brought taken place. Their mother's enthusiastic, yet critical last word in her daughter's choices, Mary's proud demeanour, always certain of what she wanted and what enhanced her beauty; Edith's quiet resentment of Mary's apparent superiority, her longing glances into the mirror, aching with unfulfilled wishes and prayers.

 

They treated Sybil exactly how they had always done, and nobody would have thought of her failed elopement, of revelations in the drawing room that almost tore the family apart, or of the husband that now needed to have a tray in their bedroom because her own father could not overcome his pride long enough to spend a short amount of time in his company.

 

Perhaps, Sybil wondered, she was forced to take a glimpse at what her life could have been like. For it made no difference in this moment. Had her husband been the spouse her family would have wanted for her, this dress fitting would have gone along no differently. The only difference would have been the honesty in that case, and the lingering veil of pretences in this moment, in reality.

 

She tried her hardest to recall a time when these hours spent with her mother and sisters used to be so special, so exciting, utterly thrilling and wonderful for her. Back then, when her world had been so small and limited, that new frocks were the only excitement allowed in it. It made her sad these days, to think of that young and naïve girl that she had been forced to grow into, the girl that had first met Tom on the way to this very place, and had returned with the first step into a future that was not bright, but so brightly lit with possibilities and opportunities.

 

The frocks were still beautiful, and to slip back into a embroidered gown, to feel the silk float around her legs and the light cream-coloured sleeves encasing her arms had still felt extraordinary. Still, Sybil felt no more adrenaline pumping through her veins, no more giddiness at wearing the new frock just as soon as an opportunity appeared around the corner.

 

She was tired already, unable to cling onto the scattered remains of her younger self long enough to appear as excited as she felt she should be. This was not who she was any more, was not who she had been for so long now. Not just since she had married Tom. No. It went back far longer than that, to the time when she still lived under the ancient roof of Downton, but had worn her uniform so much more often than her gowns and tea dresses.

 

In this moment, it all became much clearer than it ever had before, that she had shrugged off the naivety and innocence of her childhood long ago, and that the woman she had grown into under the shadows of the war, found no absolute joy and pleasure in pearls, silk and lace.

 

None of it ever lost its beauty. But its charm, she was now sure, was not as permanent as she had once believed.

 

“Sybil?” her mother's voice suddenly pulled her out of her winding thoughts, and Sybil's vision was blurred for a moment as she realized her mother and Mary had moved in front of the mirror.

 

“Excuse me?” she asked, knowing that her attempt to sound less taken aback was failing with each unsteady syllable.

 

“What do you think?” Mary asked, holding up a long piece of delicate lace against her dark hair.

 

“It looks beautiful,” Sybil replied, and as confused and uncomfortable as she still felt, it was the truth. The only true excitement she felt concerning this entire charade was to properly see Mary in her wedding dress. As meaningless as all this had become to her, she could feel the youngest sister awakening in her, always in awe of Mary's beauty and grace, now amplified by the sheer happiness that seemed to radiate from her.

 

Her oldest sister getting married not only reminded Sybil of her own wedding – so incredibly and unbelievably different from every tiny detail of what she was experiencing right now – but it also reminded her of their childhood, of admiring her eldest sister, always aching to be more like her, to be with her, to love and be loved in return. Their happiness seemed to be somehow, very deep down and in ways so twisted that it never quite became clear, intertwined, connected, and depended on each other.

 

“Darling, is anything the matter?” Cora asked tentatively, her eyes filled with the mixture of concern and suspicion that only a mother could truly be capable of.

 

“Oh no, I'm quite alright,” Sybil reassured her, taking in the contrast of the pristinely white lace against the dark shine of Mary's hair to avoid their mother's gaze, fearing that her partial lie would be detected before she could make herself believe that part of it was really true.

 

-

 

Tom's steps were hesitant on the gravel path that circled the grand house, much slower and less determined than they had been years ago, when he would take these very steps more regularly. Back in the days, when his head was shielded from the sun by the constricting frame of his hat, and when his uniform made every step a little bit harder to take.

 

His empty stomach was protesting as he walked along the many tall windows, reflecting the sun in the early summer heat of the day. The warmth seeped into his skin, and Tom could not help but wonder if the sun was shining with an equal force back home, if his mother's days were brightened by the clear sky and warm breeze. If Sean's children could smile, playing carefree in the heat of the day.

 

The thought of Sybil surrounded by silk and pearls and all kinds of valuables that he would never be able to give her, came with a painful reminder of the life they had left behind only a little while ago, so close still. Although the days passed quicker than they had feared, Tom found not enough distraction to erase thoughts of his family back home, shaken by grief and unsettled by the raging violence and chaos that surrounded them every minute of every day. In their mind, and every time they set a foot outside of their homes.

 

For a moment, Tom's steps slowed down even more, and he almost stood still as his eyes gazed at the path in front of him, splitting into two, divided by the huge tree that served as a canopy for the bench snuggled against it, overlooking the cast fields of green, of flowers, of peace.

 

There was no doubt where he was headed, where his feet now began to carry him almost subconsciously, following the path they had walked time and time again. He turned away from the trail of gravel that lead downhill towards the gardens – gardens he had only seen for the first time a few days ago, walking through the blooming blossoms with Sybil holding on to his arm, smiling brighter than any petal ever could – he began to walk down the path towards the stables and courtyard. Soon, he felt the gravel under his feet turn into more solid ground, and he looked up, the sun brightly in the sky and the ornamented outlines of the castle walls turning into plain brick.

 

Had he abandoned his family in a time of war? In a time of death and pain, of poverty and struggle? Was he really the eldest son to walk out on his family when they most needed him? Was this who he was, who he had turned out to be?

 

No.

 

He thought of his dead cousin's face, the young boy who had clung to him like a leech every single day of their childhood, trying to impress him and get his attention, turning into a bitter man, with so much passion for a cause that was not wrong, but misguided. And he thought of Sybil, and their unborn child sleeping between them each night, moving and living, becoming a part of them as much as they were of each other.

 

As he turned the corner around the high brick wall, Tom could see the garage peeking out from behind the ranking bushes, the gates closed shut. It looked so utterly deserted, even though he knew that it was not, that someone else had taken over the place that had served as his home for almost six years. There would be life behind those gates for a little while longer, for however long this surreal world surrounding him would last. Only it would not be him.

 

Taking in the sight in front of him, fighting against the urge to look for the spare key he had kept behind the green making its way up the wooden posts that framed the garage, he realized that he had not abandoned his family.

 

Quite the opposite. It was his family he was trying to protect, even if it meant that he was swallowed up by all the charades and unspoken games that made up this world.

 

With a last glance at the half-hidden garage, Tom turned around, for a moment steering towards the back entrance around the corner, the way he had always entered the house, before dragging himself up the gravel path back towards the green fields surrounding the house.


	9. love or hate

_The ultimate choice for a man, in as much as he is given to transcend himself, is to create or destroy, to love or to hate._

**Erich Fromm**

 

“Tom! Tom!”

 

Sybil could feel her dry throat aching as she called her husband's name up the grand staircase. More out of habit than real necessity, she lifted the pale green hem of her dress, rushing up each step without any care or precaution.

 

Somewhere between the rich rattling of her earrings and the thumps of rushed steps, Sybil could hear someone calling out her own name, but the voice was silenced as a familiar door was slammed shut.

 

As Sybil's pace slowed down as she reached the top of the stairs, she was only faced with the pristine, white door. A door that had never been slammed in her face, a door that had always been in her control.

 

Never before had Sybil hesitated in front of her own room; never had she stood in the hallway as it was currently - dank and dark, despite the glass ceiling that flooded light through the hall downstairs. 

 

“Tom,” she repeated, more quietly this time, her voice so much raspier than it already was on a normal day. Sighing, she reached out her hand and pressed her palm flat against the door. Everything felt so smooth underneath the silk of her glove, and for the split second that she allowed herself to shut her eyes, the last half hour passed through her mind's eye like lightning, the painful memory of trouble not yet overcome.

 

Sybil felt utterly disappointed in this moment, for not being more certain of what to do, of how each tiny step she took would affect her husband. She felt as if she should know what to do, how to act, what to say. Nothing seemed right.

 

“Sybil?” 

 

Mary's voice was quiet, only a faint echo through the corridors of the house, and Sybil ignored her eldest sister's concerned call from downstairs. This had not been her fault in the slightest, but it was most certainly in her hands to turn it even worse.

 

Sybil opened her eyes again, this time preparing herself for the painful sight of the door in front of her, before she slowly let her hand slide down the wooden door, her fingertips curling around the cool doorknob. 

 

“Tom?” she asked hesitantly as she pushed the door open slowly. He was facing the window, with his back to Sybil. Everything about his posture gave away what had just occurred downstairs, his stance a mirror of every shout, every profanity and every raised voice across the neatly laid dinner table.

 

Softly closing the door behind her, Sybil pulled off her gloves. She carelessly dropped them on the bed as she passed it, no eye for either the new cushions or the fact that Anna had yet to take out her nightdress. Her heels barely made a sound on the thick carpet, the softness under her feet more than welcome on any other day. No, however, Sybil worried about nothing but Tom, who still had not even turned to look at her.

 

Sybil came to a stop right behind Tom, mirroring his silence. Still overwhelmed by the turmoil of fury and frustration that caused her heart to pump at a much faster and angrier pace, she reached her hand out once more. It was bare now, the thin line of her wedding ring completing the picture as she repeated her earlier action, resting her palm flat against Tom's back.

 

For a moment, it seemed as if Tom had not even realized her soft, comforting touch. He moved not an inch, nothing seemed to unsettle the tension in his body. However, when Sybil took one last step forward, the tips of her ice blue heels bumping into the back of Tom's shoes, and rested her cheek next to her hand, Tom sighed in defeat.

 

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, sincerely but unwillingly nonetheless.

 

Sybil could still feel the pricking of unshed tears behind her closed eyelids, the sore ache reminding her painfully of how necessary this apology was. “It's alright,” she whispered, wrapping her free arm around Tom's waist.

 

“No,” he countered defiantly, his voice much steadier now than it had been before, “I never should have lost control like that.”

 

The shouts still echoed in Sybil's ears, she could see her father's red face so clearly, could still feel her sister's hesitant hand pressing into her shoulder. Tom's dishevelled hair and the state of his clothes were a sure proof of the brawl that had taken place downstairs.

 

“You're angry,” Sybil replied quietly, the lump in her throat caused by pain and the exhaustion of trying to prevent herself from bursting into tears in front of her whole family. “You had every right to show that.”

 

“I gave them what they wanted,” Tom continued, obviously still fuming, but weakened by the dissatisfaction he felt with himself and how he had acted.

 

“No,” Sybil reassured him, although the image of Tom standing by the dinner table, his composure finally crumbling down, really did seem to be her family's nightmare come to life, “Don't worry about them. Let's get past that, please.”

 

Tom replied to Sybil's pleading, taking her bare hand in his as he finally turned to face her. His face was still tense, his eyes bloodshot, but everything seemed softer. Apologetic. 

 

“I feel like I hurt you more than anyone else, and you did nothing wrong at all,” he whispered, reaching out to rest his palm against her flushed cheek.

 

“Think of it as a silly line,” Sybil said quietly, grasping her husband's hand tightly, “It really is nothing more. This won't happen again.”

 

Her grandmother's scheduled arrival tomorrow, which should have been a happy event, a reunion after many years, had turned out to be the final straw. The final drop of oil into the fire, and Robert's plans for the welcoming queue the following morning had sparked an emotional, verbal explosion.

 

“I don't even understand why this is all making me so angry. I wasn't expecting anything, but... to keep me away from you-” Tom began, bringing up Robert's insistence of him standing next to Carson at the top of the servants line instead of by Sybil's side once more. Sybil silenced him with a soft shake of her head.

 

He looked deeply into her eyes, confused, grateful for her forgiveness, but still ridden by guilt and the last debris of overwhelming anger.

 

“I hurt you,” he whispered, barely leaning in a little closer. Sybil almost did not realize it, had it not been for the warmth of his breath against her already flushed skin.

 

“What?” Sybil asked, the crumbling of his voice crawling all the way under her skin.

 

“I know I hurt you. That... what just happened... I hurt you.”

 

“It hurt,” Sybil confirmed, looking down at the swell of her belly between them, wrapped in soft silk, “But I know that was never your intention.”

 

She understood why he had lost control in that way, why he had finally faced her father without any inhibitions, why he had said hurtful things to everyone else in the room, even though she had become collateral damage in the process.

 

“I love you so much, Sybil,” Tom whispered brokenly, relaxing only slightly as Sybil squeezed his hand tighter, “It's just -”

 

“I love you, too,” Sybil whispered as she pressed her finger against Tom's parted lips, leaning in to softly replace it with her own.

 

As their eyes fell shut, the discussion was ended, for the time being.

 

Perhaps they had taken too many steps at once, had dared too much too quickly, had hoped too much too soon.

 

Tom's fingers sank into the soft waves of her hair, shorter now than ever before. It had been an idea that had wandered through her mind many times before, and when Sybil had finally grown tired of spending hours and hours each day pinning up her long strands of thick hair, she had confronted her mother and sisters with the decision to cut it off entirely.

 

Sybil felt more comfortable in her own skin, much more at ease. The lack of pins scratching her scalp, the missing weight at the nape of her neck, it all felt as if an amazing amount of pressure had been lifted off her shoulders.

 

Cora, whose own hair resembled Sybil's a lot now, making it obvious to Tom for the first time how mother and daughter resembled each other, as well as Sybil's sisters had approved of the idea.

 

Her grandmother's disapproving remarks and her father's shocked stare had done nothing to make Sybil regret her decision. And as Tom's fingers massaged the newly free nape of her neck, Sybil felt content knowing that maybe this radical step had been another step on the path that led to today's uproar. 

 

.:.

 

 

It felt like standing on the other side of a great painting, sophisticated and grand. Full of history and grace, miles and miles away from anything that resembled reality. A different world, one that seemed so utterly distant that it lost all connection to any real emotion.

 

The familiarity made it even more confusing. So many times had he driven up the gravel path to Downton to be met by his employers and fellow colleagues, lined up perfectly to reflect the honour and generation-old grace of the house. Only, back then, they had not been there to greet him, to welcome him. He had been the moving part, the link between the guests he brought up to the house and the line up that awaited them.

 

It still was not about him, never would be about him. Now, however, he seemed to be the link between the servants and the family, Mr Carson to his left, tense and occasionally glancing menacingly at him from his peripheral, and Isobel on his right, calm and collected, granting him an encouraging smile. He was sure she had heard all about last night's debacle, but it altered her civility towards him in no way.

 

Every muscle in his body was tense, his nerves fluttering, and more than once, he found himself glancing at Sybil, standing next to her sisters in the short line opposite him.

 

What little Sybil had told him about her American grandmother had hardly been enough to prepare him for this day. The other members of her family he had been acquainted with for years, and had therefore been given the advantage of knowing what to expect. 

 

Sybil's maternal grandmother, however, was a new chapter. The biggest leap he had yet to take, the most exhausting obstacle to overcome, it seemed. 

 

The scarce information that Sybil had provided him with was based mostly on a handful of scattered memories that she had of her grandmother. According to Sybil, she had only ever met her a few times in her life, briefly and never long enough to really form a bond. Her older sisters apparently had been given a much deeper connection with their maternal grandmother, their few extra years on Sybil an advantage for them. 

 

Not to be allowed to stand by Sybil's side in this moment - the first time he would ever meet Martha Levinson and the first time for Sybil to be united with her grandmother in years - was painful. Tom and Sybil were husband and wife now, yet not allowed to stand side by side to one another.

 

In the distance, accompanied by grey clouds and an overwhelming feeling of melancholy, Tom could make out the car, slowly approaching them on the gravel path leading up to the grand house. Fidgeting with his plain cuff links, he recalled Sybil's words, their soft and reassuring echo clear in his memory.

 

“She and Granny are quite alike in many ways. They've lived long lives, and time is not the only thing I mean by that. She can be quite... intimidating, really. I suppose Granny is, as well. But I've spent all my life alongside her. Despite their similarities, they could not be more different people, though. You should know that.”

 

As the car drew nearer, and Tom could make out the outline of a sophisticated hat, he wondered in what way two people could be alike, yet so far apart that an ocean fit between them. Growing up in such different ways, in such different worlds must be the key, he thought as the heavy crunch of the gravel beneath the tires of the car became more prominent. 

 

It was a parallel for all the subtle differences between Tom and Sybil, which could never really be wiped away or overlooked despite their equal minds and similar thoughts, ideas and dreams. They had always been alike, but far apart.

 

Who would their child grow up to be? How would it shape their son or daughter, this war-shaken world that seemed to settle for unrest, brooding danger always around the corner?

 

When the car came to a slow halt in front of them, Tom looked at Sybil once more, her hands folded in front of her belly, fingers fidgeting. She looked nervous, yet full of anticipation, and Tom smiled as she lowered her head to her right side to peek into the car's wide windows.

 

His watchful glance did not go unnoticed, and when Sybil met his yes, she responded with an equally delighted smile. 

 

It was a little painful for Tom to admit to himself how well suited she looked in her brown dress and shorter hair, standing next to her sisters like the aristocrat she had been born and raised as.

 

“From war and peace, Downton still stands, and the Crawleys are still in it,” a strong, determined voice finally broke the murmuring silence, the sort of silence that never really _is_ silent, a constant hum of life bubbling beneath the quiet façade of unspoken words and immobility.

 

“Mother,” Cora replied, less enthusiastically, and Tom watched curiously as the two women embraced, mother and daughter no doubt, but in subtle ways – Cora's uncertain hands on her mother's back, her impatient attempt to step back – it was obvious that the ocean that parted them from each other had washed away many ties had that bound them over the years.

 

The scene in front of him awoke the memories of their own arrival, Sybil and her mother so much the same. Two generations of mothers and daughters unable to brave the course of life and the distance put between them by a handful of choices. However, Cora and Martha, who now untangled their embrace, had had to manage the distance and the estrangement for decades, whereas Sybil had only been gone for barely a year.

 

It had been Sybil's choice to leave her home, her parents, everything behind. Cora, clearly, had not made that choice for herself. She had been pushed into the life she was living now, and, as far as Tom could tell, she was as content with it as she could be. Perhaps that was the reason for the slower growing gap between her in her mother. Neither of them had disappointed each other with unexpected choices. There was merely a certain sense of melancholy that nestled around the two women, no blame, and no guilt.

 

“Martha, it has been much too long,” Robert welcomed her, wrapped in his mother-in-law's arms before the last word passed his lips. 

 

“Obviously,” Martha replied as she looked at Robert scrutinisingly, her eyes then quickly scanning the line up of servants and family members.

 

Tom found himself under her intense stare for a second longer than anyone else, and something about her, maybe the fact that this was the first time he laid eyes on her, was intimidating. He wished to take a step back, to keep himself in the background for this welcoming procedure. 

 

“Where is your dear mother, Robert?”

 

“I'm afraid she could not make it here in time. She will be joining us for dinner later.”

 

“What a shame,” Martha said distractedly as her eyes focussed back on the group in front of her, “Carson and Mrs Hughes, the world has moved on since last we met.” She took determined steps towards the line of servants, her ladies maid carrying the first of many bags.

 

“And we have moved on with it, Mam,” Carson replied in his usual manner of politeness and collectivity. Tom glanced at Sybil once more, who, alongside her sisters, had taken a step towards the now gathering group.

 

Martha turned at the crunch of the gravel, but Tom did not miss her lingering gaze when she passed him.

 

“Mary, my dear, come here.”

 

“Grandmama,” Mary welcomed her grandmother, collected as she always was, but with a genuine smile on her face. The two women embraced shortly, and Martha patted Mary's cheek as they parted.

 

“You look sickly, my dear. Don't let all the wedding business get to your head.”

 

Martha never gave Mary, whose eyes gave away that the wedding was not all that troubled her, the time to answer, stepping past her towards Edith.

 

“Now, Edith, what's with all the doom and gloom?” she asked, opening her arms to embrace her granddaughter, “I assumed I travelled all this way for a happy occasion.”

 

Edith attempted a genuine smile, but Tom had noticed her low mood and the distance in her eyes during breakfast, and the faint stretch of her lips was far from convincing.

 

“What do I always say? A frown has never looked good on anyone,” Martha advised with an almost cheeky grin, before scanning the line in front of her once more, until her eyes rested on Sybil.

 

“Dear me, where is my little Sybil gone?”

 

Tom glanced at Sybil, who smiled and seemed to avoid direct eye contact with her grandmother, a faint blush tinting her cheeks.

 

“Look at you all grown up,” Martha continued, stepping over to where they were standing, her hands coming to rest against Sybil's upper arms, “I can not believe it. The last time I saw you your hair was half-way down your back and you still slipped into the kitchen to steal cake.”

 

“I never stole it,” Sybil insisted with a smile, chastely responding to her grandmother's embrace.

 

For a moment, Tom could see her so clearly. Young, wild, oblivious to all the world's troubles and pains, sneaking into the kitchen, crumbs of cake framing her mouth, fingers hidden behind her back.

 

“So, this is the mysterious husband I have been hearing so very little about” Martha continued as she turned back around, and when Tom met her curious glance, he could see his father-in-law fidgeting in the background, clearly eager to end this conversation before it could even properly begin, “What was the name again?”

 

“Tom Branson,” Tom replied, standing tall, offering Sybil's grandmother a polite smile.

 

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Martha continued, her voice somewhat cooler than before, with an edge of curiosity. Tom suspected she held back any questions and comments that she might have for the time being. From what little he could judge, she seemed to be someone intensely clever, someone who understood the grand machine that was this evening must proceed for the time being without any interference. 

 

“The pleasure is all mine,” Tom replied, and with another smile at Sybil, Martha turned back towards Mary, who had reclaimed her earlier spot next to Matthew.

 

“Ah, the groom,” Martha announced, almost gleefully stepping across the gravel. Tom's eyes only followed her for a moment before scanning the small crowd for Sybil. She was still smiling, but appeared calmer now, more focussed and much less anxious.

 

As Isobel introduced herself, Tom dared to take the few steps forward that closed the gap between him and Sybil, happily taking her outstretched hand.

 

“This is going to be interesting,” Tom whispered into her ear, and the chuckle he earned as a reply was not entirely carried by humour alone, but still carried an echo of last night's heartbreak.

 

.:.

 

“I wouldn't want to be in Matthew's shoes tonight,” Tom confessed, his voice unusually clear now that the fire had died down, leaving faint embers in its wake. The lack of cracking flames and orange glow left the room in the cool light of the lamps alone, allowing for a certain chill to seep deeply into flesh and bones.

 

Sybil looked up from her book, wriggling slightly to find a more comfortable position as she sat upright in bed. Her legs were buried under the blanket, her hands holding the leather-bound book against her stomach.

 

“Why?” she asked, her own thoughts focussed mainly on her sister. Mary had been unusually quiet during dinner, her eyes glassy, never really seeing, always straying. Every word she had uttered, every answer she had given had been etched with a distant echo of her usual force. While everyone else had been overloading her with questions and remarks, anecdotes and advice, Sybil had decided to leave Mary be, to let her spend this last family dinner in her own way. For after tomorrow, she would be someone's wife, never again a child in anyone's eyes. Even though her husband would be someone who loved her so dearly and so fully, and had done so for so many years, there seemed to be a certain bitterness about the prospect of marriage. It was an oddity that Sybil never really got to feel because so much bitterness had already clouded her decisions that had nothing to do with marriage alone.

 

In a certain way, it was a cage, a farewell to the family life in which one used to find comfort and security. The last step away from childhood and innocence. Sybil had not often thought about it as such, and to refer to it as a cage did not pain her as much as she once might have believed. After all, she had grown old enough to understand that every decision made in life resembled a cage, for they would forever have an influence on everything to come in the future.

 

“I remember how nervous I was the night before our wedding. And we didn't have a ceremony of such magnitude to go along with it,” Tom chuckled in response to Sybil's question, pushing his dark dressing gown off his shoulders. As he rested it on the foot of the bed, he caught Sybil's curious gaze, a faint, slightly crooked grin on her face. 

 

“Were you really nervous?” she asked, shutting her book and slowly, with gentle fingers, laying it down on the embroidered blanket next to her.

 

For a moment, Tom lost himself staring at her, really taking her in and how much she had changed. Returning to this place, this change of life, seemed to have taken his direct focus off her, readjusting it solely to how it all _affected_ her. The rings under her eyes were darker than usual, more profound, caused more by trouble than a mere lack of sleep. Her face was fuller, the rose of her cheeks intensified. 

 

Everything about Sybil had always been soft and gentle, utterly beautiful in Tom's eyes. However, in this moment, he realized in wonderment how much softer, gentler, and stunningly more gorgeous she had become.

 

“Of course,” he replied as he noticed her brows beginning to pull together in confusion at his long silence, “With your sisters there, it wouldn't have been the first time you ran away from me with them in the middle of the night.”

 

He wished to take back his words as soon as they filled the dim room, and the look of distress and bitterness on Sybil's face was enough for him to truly regret them. Nevertheless, they were the truth, a fear that had clutched at his heart and filled his every vein the night before their wedding. The fact that their first attempt at marrying had ended with his bride - the woman he loved so dearly and for so long - rushing off into the night with her sisters, had been heartbreaking.

 

“I didn't really run the first time,” Sybil said quietly, and he could almost see the memory of her restless, indecisive, and distraught face from that night reflected in this very moment.

 

“That's true,” Tom murmured as he slipped under the blanket next to her, “And I'm glad you didn't run the second time.”

 

Sybil smiled at him, a tender and almost apologetic smile he remembered from that chilly afternoon after she had returned to Downton with her sisters, standing in the gate to the garage in her tea gown, pale against the backdrop of the grey and cloudy sky.

 

Leaning over to press his lips to hers, Tom felt Sybil shiver under the chaste touch, and the groan that rumbled deep in his throat as she wrapped her hands tightly around his neck was almost primal. It had been too long since they had really been close, had really been just the two of them like this.

 

The kiss deepened as Tom wrapped his arms as far around Sybil as their position allowed, the swell of Sybil's stomach a barrier hindering them from moving closer to each other.

 

Sybil moaned quietly, more of a hum, soft and aching, as Tom's hand brushed her breast on its way to rest against her neck. Her pulse was quick, and Tom could feel the blood rushing through her veins as her lips parted under his own.

 

As their kiss intensified, Sybil pulled Tom as close to her as she could by his forearm, until he almost hovered above her. This was not as easy as it had been only a few weeks before, and Sybil grunted in frustration as her back began to ache from the uncomfortable position.

 

Tom, sensing her discomfort, was quick to take some of the passion out of the kiss, merely brushing his lips against hers. As he pulled them up into a more comfortable sitting position, their breathing began to calm down, the huskiness of each exhale becoming softer and softer with each passing second.

 

“Weren't you nervous?” Tom asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his forehead pressed lightly against Sybil's.

 

“Not really, I must admit,” she replied, memories glittering in her eyes like diamonds in the candle light, “Terribly excited. I could barely find a minute of sleep.”

 

“You didn't look like it,” he reassured her, interlacing their fingers as he leaned back a little, giving each of them space to breathe and himself room to calm down the fire burning inside of him.

 

“You did,” Sybil chuckled, and both of them laughed at the memory of Tom, sweaty and ragged-looking, as if he had run for miles to make it to the wedding in time, when in fact, he had been over an hour early.

 

“I hope that everybody will be distracted enough not to notice how strange I feel in that suit I'll have to wear,” Tom muttered, throwing a glance at Sybil's pale blue dress that was already hung up against the wardrobe for the wedding the next day.

 

“I'm sure Grandmama will notice just how dashing you look,” Sybil reassured him, pressing her lips against his cheek. 

 

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

 

“You should.”

 

Something about the tone of Sybil's voice caused Tom to shiver, a thread-like balance of mockery, care and the strain his outburst last night had left not only on his relationship to everyone else in the house, but on their own as well.

 

“I spoke to Matthew earlier,” Tom said quietly, not yet ready to fall into silence, too awake to fall asleep, “Before dinner.”

 

“You did?” Sybil asked, surprised. Tom and Matthew had spent more than a few occasions together since their arrival at Downton, so this admission did not completely shock her but she was unprepared for it nonetheless. 

 

“In the library,” Tom continued as Sybil moved over to her side of the bed properly adjusting the cushions behind her back, “It seems he and Mary had had a fight earlier.”

 

Sybil's alarm and concern were evident immediately. The tension had seemed to fill the house more and more as the wedding drew nearer with each passing day, and had eventually reached a point where it became physically exhausting to endure.

 

“She did look awfully distracted during dinner,” she mused, twisting her wedding band between her fingertips absent-mindedly.

 

“I gave him a little advice, but I don't know how much help I can be,” Tom murmured.

 

Tom felt the weight of the world on his shoulders as Sybil looked at him, her skin faintly glowing from the bedside lamp, her eyes pleading, her hand subconsciously cradling their unborn child.

 

“Everything is alright, though, isn't it?” she asked softly, and Tom was not sure how to answer, not sure of anything, not sure if they were still discussing her sister, or themselves.

 

“I'm sure it will be.”

 

.:.

 

Sybil watched in awe as their mother handed Mary the pristine white, silken gloves, a glow of light against her eldest sister's ivory skin. She had always been beautiful, a mystical figure to Sybil when they were younger. Memories flooded Sybil's mind as Anna helped secure the filigree lace veil. Memories of their childhood, of days when her sister had seemed like a figure from a fairy tale, of otherworldly and admirable beauty and grace. For so long, Sybil had tried to live up to the example Mary was leading, until the day she realized that, as the youngest, she was given a special sense of love, one that was dedicated to her alone.

 

Now, she simply looked at her sister with a heartfelt smile.

 

“Anna, have you seen the earrings we chose yesterday? I'm sure I put them down on the mantelpiece but I cannot find them there,” Cora wondered, and Sybil cast a glance around Mary's bright room, knowing there was no point in searching for such a delicate pair of pearl earrings in the piles of lace, silk and flowers.

 

“Perhaps you took them back to your room with you, along with the ones we sorted out,” Mary suggested, pulling the second glove gently, but skilfully up her arm, wriggling her long fingers to smooth out every crinkle in the rich fabric.

 

Yesterday, Mary, Sybil and Edith - who had now been sent downstairs to help arrange transportation for the last few guests that were not yet at the church - had made their way through all of their mother's jewellery, finally deciding on a pair of tear-drop pearl and diamond earrings. Cora had been oddly sentimental and absent-minded after Mary chose those particular earrings, but deep down, all three of the sisters had known better than to ask. 

 

“I'll be back in a minute, darling,” Cora said, rushing out of the door.

 

“Yes, Mama,” Mary sighed, but their mother had already shut the door behind herself, leaving Mary, Sybil and Anna alone in the warm room, “She's acting as if I was about to go running off into the woods after being left alone.”

 

Sybil could see the smile on Anna's face as she checked on the many buttons down Mary's back once more time, and the chuckle that escaped her only reminded Sybil of their childhood days more, when dressing up had not been a duty, but one of the most welcome ways to pass the time.

 

“Well, she has been waiting a long time for this, you cannot really blame her for wanting everything to go smoothly,” Sybil said, getting up from the edge of Mary's bed, smoothing her bare hands down the soft blue waves of her dress.

 

Her own hat and gloves had been left on the bed, the thin shawl she had borrowed from Edith already draped around her shoulders.

 

“I think it'll go as smoothly as we can manage,” Mary said with a little too much determination to sound natural, and Sybil walked over to her sister as Anna began to fold and put away Mary's nightdress.

 

“You look beautiful,” Sybil said quietly, taking in her eldest sister in her white gown, not a spot to spoil the swan-like beauty and grace. Her lace veil was not yet draped over her face, a brand new comb, sparkling in the sunlight, shining against the dark waves of her hair, a present from their grandmother. 

 

Sybil thought back to her own wedding, when the sister's roles had been reversed, when Mary had stood in front of Sybil, dressed in a much stiffer, much plainer white dress and a veil that had begun to turn pale yellow around the edges, telling her what a beautiful bride she was.

 

“Thank you, Sybil darling,” she replied now, the ghost of a smile evident at the corner of Mary's lips.

 

“Is everything alright?” Sybil asked, a little hesitant to bring up the worries that Tom had stirred last night. From her peripheral vision, she could see Anna discreetly beginning to sort through the wardrobe.

 

“What on Earth do you mean?” Mary asked, and Sybil noticed the way she avoided direct eye contact, looking behind her to bunch up the long veil, fidgeting with her gloves and trailing her fingers over the small sapphire brooch pinned to her gown.

 

“You have been so quiet the last few days,” Sybil began to explain, “And Tom told me that you and Matthew had a fight yesterday.”

 

“Darling, don't waste your time worrying about me,” Mary began to reassure her, “You have so much else to think about.”

 

With a faint smile, Mary reached out to rest her hand softly against the swell of Sybil's stomach, her niece or nephew responding to the touch with a slight turn. Sybil ignored her child's movement, used to the constant turns and kicks. She had come to the conclusion that their child would most likely be born a dancer, and that she and Tom would have to invest their last money in tickets to see their child come to life on stage.

 

It was the bitterness in her eldest sister's voice that bothered Sybil, that scared her. Mary, who was a walking contradiction these days, was beaming with happiness, but the echo of her voice was filled with indifference and melancholia.

 

“Mary-”

 

“Darling, I'll be fine,” Mary interrupted her, dropping her hand lifelessly down her side, “This is what I want! I want to marry Matthew and I love him at least as much as he loves me. I was too proud to admit it for so long, but now is the time to shout it out into the world. There is nothing else that can't be settled.”

 

This day, her sister's wedding day, seemed to awaken so many long suppressed or long forgotten memories of their younger days, when rivalry had been less hostile and jealousy less venomous. 

 

“I'm not a child any more, Mary,” Sybil began, remembering how many things she had never been included in, how many problems had been kept from her, how many secrets she had never been told. “You don't have to keep things from me like you used to when I was too young to be bothered with them.”

 

There was a slight clattering sound, and the two sisters turned to see Anna placing the discarded jewellery back into the small box Mary had been given for her 18th birthday.

 

Catching a glance at the stellar blue spring sky, Sybil turned to look back at Mary, who, to her surprise, was already facing her, smiling with a strange sense of pride.

 

“Oh, my dear, you are further away from being a child than I ever could have believed. That is not the reason. I simply do not want to bother you with things that you needn't be worried about.”

 

Sybil was still dubious, a little suspicious of the cracks in Mary's usually perfect mask, one that Sybil knew could not last forever. 

 

“If that is what you want,” she finally gave in, not wanted to spoil this day by questioning it. Instead, she turned to sort out the small bag she had brought to take to church with her, remembering that she had meant to take a second handkerchief. The cold inside the small church was something she would never forget, no matter how far away she moved, no matter how long it had been since she had set foot inside.

 

“Sybil,” Mary's voice stopped her in her tracks, and she turned back, now softly pressing her hand into her belly to feel the strong movement underneath her skin, “Before Mama returns, there is one thing I wanted to say.”

 

There was a certain reassurance and confidence present in Mary's voice, and Sybil felt warmer knowing that the fierceness her sister had mastered so well would probably never really be lost in the swirl of time and change. 

 

“What is it?” she asked, curious now and slightly in wonder at the lack of nervousness Mary showed despite the profound sound of her announcement.

 

“I want to apologize,” Mary replied plainly, taking a long and deep breath, “For a lot of things I said. The other night... might have proved some of my concerns, but on the whole, I have to admit that I was wrong. About a lot of things, and I am truly sorry for that. The last thing I want is for that to forever stand between us.”

 

“Oh, Mary,” Sybil sighed, never having truly known about how much Mary cared about the way she had reacted to Sybil's unconventional life choices, “Don't apologize. You never gave us away when you could have done it so easily. That is enough.”

 

Mary smiled, and Sybil could not help herself. She stepped forward into her eldest sister's arms, neither of them worrying about crinkles in the fabric that was so smooth between them, or about less than perfect hair. In this moment, they were simply the youngest and the oldest, making up for many unspoken words, and for still too many that were regretted and mourned.

 

Sybil felt a hint of hope growing inside of her, a flicker of confidence that this bond she shared with Mary, with Edith, with her family, would never fully tear, and that to a certain degree, would last until the end of time.

 

.:.

 

As a young girl, Sybil had spent so much time imagining this very day, painting it in the brightest, richest colours in her mind, wondering and dreaming about how utterly lovely and beautiful it would be.

 

Her eldest sister's wedding had been almost as aspiring in her mind as her own, a young girl's foolish dream of the way life was simply supposed to unfold. 

 

In the end, it, like most childhood fantasies, had been profoundly different, while the core, the seed of an idea from which all fantasies grew, had been present in every step, every vow and every shed tear.

 

Back then, Sybil had imagined herself as more of a flower girl at her sister's wedding, taking some active, but oh so innocent part, perhaps earning a compliment or two for the very special frock she would surely be wearing, while everyone's attention would be focussed solely on Mary, a statuesque figure of grace and beauty as she gave her vows to one of those men that walked in and out of the house in sharp suits, sleek words curling past their lips that young girls could only giggle about.

 

She most certainly would not have thought that a wedding band would be wrapped tightly around her own finger by the time she finally got to witness her sister's steps down the aisle, or that one of her hands was intertwined with those of a man she was once in a position to simply order around, while her free hand pressed against the swell of her stomach, feeling their unborn child moving. Sybil had smiled at the thought of her son or daughter sharing her own excitement as she watched Mary's feather-light steps down the aisle. There had been a sense of eagerness and wildness about the way she moved which seemed foreign, as if her sister was only now slowly awakening from a long, deep slumber, carefully reaching her fingers out into the dew of a new morning.

 

Tom had smiled at her coyly a few times during the ceremony, and Sybil had felt so utterly content, allowing herself to completely soak in the happiness of the day. Tears had gathered in her eyes as she saw the shimmer in Mary's eyes and heard the most sincere truth behind the vows that echoed through the small church. 

 

Without any hesitation, she had squeezed Tom's hand a little tighter, had smiled back at him with a light and airy feeling flooding her. She knew that not properly speaking about what had taken place the other night, what had been building up ever since their arrival, would haunt them eventually. For now, however, there was no use in being gloomy, when there was so much _goodness_ and joy in life.

 

This day had been so long coming, years and years of life lived, life lost, all leading to this happy, sunny day. As Sybil and Tom mingled amongst the crowd that followed Mary and Matthew out of the church and onto the fresh spring grass, she remembered that morning so many years ago when she had woken up to Anna telling her about the sinking of the ship they had all thought unsinkable. The morning that the future as the Crawleys knew it had sunk alongside the boy Edith had cared more about than anyone else. 

 

Sybil thought back to all those years ago, when the root for this day had begun to grow, when she'd had no clue about the man who rested his hand against the small of her back as he guided her through the crowd of guests towards her parents.

 

So much had happened in such a short amount of time. So many ideas and dreams, hopes and friendships, tears and laughs. It all seemed to finally fit together like a big puzzle, a mystery only to be solved in time.

 

That Mary was happy was as clear as the sun in the sky. The sun that reflected the delicate white of her dress, making her seem an angel in a sea of colours.

 

Even in that moment, still caught up in the middle of laughter and congratulations and the attempt to find the right way back through the crowd, Sybil understood the significance of this day. She knew without a doubt that she would remember it for the rest of her life, the genuine and pure happiness in Mary's eyes.

 

No matter what the future would bring, what horror, loss, and grief still awaited her down the path that led the rest of her life, she would have this to moment to recall, to remember that happiness existed in the world, and not merely in her own heart.

 

.:.

 

Quite the same as so many other things in life, the ache left in the aftermath of excitement was one of the hardest to bear, the mania subsiding and a great sense of boredom slowly seeping into ones mind, letting all dark thoughts spin wildly. 

 

It was something Sybil had always found terribly depressing. So many parties and dinners, birthdays and seasons, dances and journeys that had brightened her world for weeks before they took place, the utter excitement and joy filling her every fibre and bone. However, once they were gone and in the past, they all seemed to leave behind a dull ache that throbbed behind her heart and sent grey clouds of misery into her mind.

 

The wedding had been on everyone's minds for so long, had kept everyone busy and minds and conversations alive. For a few days, the shared memories were enough to be discussed and analysed, but once the thrill had turned into pure memory, the entire house seemed to be under a veil of silence and boredom.

 

With all the guests gone, and Mary and Matthew off to a short trip to the seaside – for Mary had refused to risk missing the birth of her niece or nephew – the house seemed so utterly empty, as grand, yet as silent as a church during the day, nothing to be done, nothing to be talked about. A void surrounded by crumbling stone.

 

Sybil had hoped that the calm after the storm would bring an opportunity to finally end the silence between her and Tom, a silence that thus far had only been filled with shallow words, kisses and touches, while the real problem between them, the unspoken tension, remained pushed to the side lines. However, no moment seemed to be the right one, no words seemed to be the proper ones, and no solution seemed to be worth the fight.

 

Lost in her thoughts, Sybil now wandered down the corridor back to her room, cold fingers wrapped tightly around a warm glass of milk. Tom had walked down to the village earlier to take the bus into Ripon, the slightly grim expression on his face only appearing to make the circles under his eyes look darker, deeper, more profound. He had not told her what he was doing in Ripon, and she had not asked in the first place. Their marriage was based on a sense of trust, and Sybil worried that questioning Tom's intent might be seen as an assumption that each of his actions required her approval, which would only further stress him. He had murmured something about a paper under his breath as he had shuffled into his coat on his way out, the weight of his body pressing his feet into the carpet of their room leaving slight marks.

 

All alone in their room with nothing to do, and feeling terribly restless as the baby kicked more often and much harder than usual, Sybil had suddenly remembered her childhood ritual of warm milk and honey before bedtime. Even though it was far from bed time, the thought of a warm glass in her hands, and the smell of syrupy golden honey in the air, had caused her mouth to water, and before she knew it, Sybil's feet had carried down the servants' staircase and into the busy kitchen.

 

She had felt like an intruder, almost guilty for simply rushing into the busy, crowded room, but Mrs Patmore had been warm and welcoming, refusing to let her fix the glass for herself.

 

In the end, it was a plain glass of warm milk that Sybil now carried back to her room, the once so beloved smell of the honey making her so queasy that she had come close to ruining the plate of sandwiches that lay neatly on the table.

 

Mrs Patmore had chuckled warmly, and Sybil had noticed the handful of sympathetic smiles from the female staff on her way out.

 

The balls of her feet had ached by the time she rounded the corner, and she felt terribly incapable of any activity that she used to get done in a breeze. What effort was it to walk down to the servants' hall and back, after all? 

 

Sybil's eyes gazed at the glass ceiling that sheltered the entrance hall down below, and only when she heard muted foot steps on the carpet did she turn her head. Thomas was walking towards her with what looked like one of her father's suits draped across his arm.

 

“Milady,” he said with a polite nod as he passed her, and Sybil looked across her shoulder to see the tall man take the same route she had just come from. She had heard many stories about the man who had taken over Bates' position as her father's valet, stories that did not make him appear as the most likeable companion. However, she felt as if she was in no position to judge, not knowing much about the man at all. She had always appreciated his work for the soldiers at the hospital and the convalescent home alike. Tom had chosen to describe his former colleague as _quite bitter,_ and Sybil, having grown up alongside Edith for so many years, understood very well what influence on the character even a small dash of bitterness could have.

 

A door opened next to her, and Sybil stopped walking, slightly taken aback by the sudden disturbance of her thoughts.

 

“Sybil, dear,” Martha exclaimed with a wide grin as she stepped into the hallway and saw her granddaughter standing there, “I'm glad I've caught you.”

 

“What is it, Grandmama?” Sybil asked, feeling slightly out of place with the glass of milk in her hand.

 

“I've wanted a chance to speak to you in private before I left,” her grandmother continued, looking down the corridor to confirm that they really were alone.

 

“Certainly,” Sybil smiled, taking a step closer so both women stood behind the ajar door, partially hidden from anyone who might pass by in the seemingly dead house, “I do wish you could stay longer.”

 

“My dear, you know, distance can be of great advantage,” Martha chuckled, and, nodding, Sybil began to truly understand the intention behind her grandmother's words, having only now realized what spirit and life she brought to the house, “I cannot begin to explain, however, how glad I am to have had the chance to see you all again.”

 

Sybil smiled, and felt awfully young again as Martha reached out to rest her hand against Sybil's arm, the glass of milk still within the firm grip of her fingers.

 

“I've missed you since I last saw you,” she admitted quietly, a part of her, something she knew would never change, still foreign to these words, to these declarations and announcement, to speak out what her heart and mind could hardly stand.

 

“An awful lot has happened, I feel like you became a whole new person,” Martha confessed, her hand dropping, a wearisome smile on her aged face. There seemed to be more lines, more signs of a long life lived. Sybil was sure that time had had the very same effect on her granny Violet, but whereas she saw her father's mother almost every day of her life, her mother's mother only appeared from time to time, and changes were more evident, more touching.

 

“Different, perhaps, but I hope not all that new,” Sybil replied with a slight smile, trying hard not to dwell on the memories of her childhood for too long, for that young, naïve girl in her memory seemed miles and miles away, while she could still feel her housing somewhere deep inside of her. The feeling confused and scared her, and once more she realized how much she longed to hold on to the present and wish for the future, rather than cling to the past like a lifeline designed to rescue her from today's troubles.

 

“You will always be my little darling, Sybil. But how fast you've grown...” Martha said quietly, her eyes coming to rest on Sybil's growing belly. Looking down at the way the fabric of her frock now floated freely around the swell of her stomach, Sybil realized that her grandmother's ageing was not the only change that left an impact much more profoundly than it should.

 

“I suppose the distance does not help when it comes to that,” she murmured, resting her freehand against the side of her stomach, feeling slight, but tired movement beneath her skin,

 

“It most certainly does not,” her grandmother agreed quietly, mind drifting off for a moment, before quickly returning with her familiar fierceness, “Listen, my dear, there is something I wanted to say.”

 

“Yes?”

 

Taking Sybil's arm gently, but determinedly, Martha pulled her a little bit further, both women now almost completely in her room. 

 

“Do not let it all get to your head, darling. You have made a choice, do not let anyone else make you believe it was the wrong one. I know you are strong, my dear, but I also know that you might be worn out from fighting after a while. Don't let them succeed. They will accept it all in time, trust me.”

 

Sybil had believed her grandmother was less opposed to her choice of marriage and lifestyle, having heard no unkind remarks or hypocritical talk in the days she had spent here. However, this open act of kindness and support confused her, and she had never expected to hear these words from any member of her family.

 

This realization made Sybil uncommonly sad, and she wondered how little faith she truly housed for her own family, before the painfully realization dawned on her, that she had been right in her suspicion after all.

 

“So, you approve?” she asked hesitantly, not wanting to misinterpret her grandmother's words and find herself in yet another uncomfortable situation. 

 

“Who am I to approve or disapprove of your happiness, Sybil?” Martha returned plainly, and once more Sybil wished for her grandmother's attitude to be a more common one, “It would be a lie to say I wasn't worried. And if there are ever any problems or you need something, whatever it may be, a letter will do and I'll be more than glad to help. But I know you are a clever girl, and I can see how happy you could be, if only all this fighting stopped. Don't let anyone ruin your happiness, especially your father. He does love you, and the day will come when he will regret all of this.”

 

Sybil wondered for a moment if that day would truly come, and all ill feelings, all the disappointment and anger towards her father washed away for a second, the thought of losing him entirely too hard to bear. No matter what, he was her father, and she dearly wished for her grandmother's word to be true.

 

“I wish they'd think more like you, Grandmama” Sybil admitted, the broad smile on her grandmother's lips contagious, and she joined in, gladly leaning into the embrace offered to her.

 

“Oh, you don't really want them to change, do you?” Martha chuckled, and Sybil laughed as they parted.

 

“Probably not,” Sybil admitted, the echo of her words resonating in her head like cold chimes in the wind.

 

“Now, I better get going and get ready, I wouldn't want to miss my train.”

 

“I'll see you downstairs,” Sybil said with a dash of sadness behind her words, as he grandmother smiled kindly, closing the door to her room with a playful wink.

 

For a few moments, Sybil stood motionlessly in the hallway, the glass of milk in her hand, her breathing slow and even. Sighing, she began to walk again, feeling the warmth that had spread from the glass into her fingers grow colder by the minute.

 

.:.

 

Tom could not remember a day when his legs had felt this tired or this heavy. He was confused, for he remembered so many more exhausting days, dark days, filled with work from the moment his eyes opened until the minute they closed, the clock already deep into the night.

 

His thighs were burning with exertion as he pushed them up the gravel path that led away from the gardens, leaving the vast fields which surrounded the estate behind him. The large tree, shelter to the wooden bench that he was sure had seen many winters come and pass, just came into sight alongside the big house, illuminated freshly and brightly by the early May sun. 

 

The crunch of his feet on the gravel path seemed to disrupt the tranquil silence of the late morning, only the sound of wind bustling through leaves and the song of birds in the air. He stopped walking for a moment, taking in an ambience that was both comforting and suppressing, as if it was bearing something horrid, some clash that was going to fall upon it all and destroy it.

 

A sudden sound of rushed footsteps in the distance pulled Tom out of his thoughts, and as he looked down from the blue sky, his heart fell. Sybil, clearly not having bothered to put on a coat to shield herself from the rather cool breeze, came rushing towards him, much too fast for him to stay calm, and he began to walk towards her in big steps.

 

“Where have you been?” she called breathlessly, her hand pressing into her side as she slowed down her steps, “I've been looking for you all morning. I was so worried.”

 

They finally came to a stop in the shade of the large tree, and Tom felt the urge to wrap his wife in his own coat, the goosebumps on her arm so clearly evident that he wanted to throw himself into the nearest river for being so selfish.

 

“I'm sorry, I didn't want to wake you,” he answered, cursing his own lips as they spoke with the same fatigue and indifference that he had felt for so long now, the same anger that he had attempted to walk off as he left this morning. His words were true. He was sorry, very much so. And the sight of Sybil sleeping peacefully by his side, for once not riddled with nightmares, had been too whole and good to disturb.

 

The venom in his voice, for which Sybil was not even remotely to blame, suddenly seemed to focus on her entirely, and Tom longed to control the burning inside of him, the need to shield his intense anger.

 

“Couldn't you have at least left a note?” Sybil asked, a look of confusion and anger on her face, the circles around her eyes darker again, and Tom noticed how differently she was dressed, as if she had thrown on whatever she had found. He felt terrible as he thought of her running around all over the house all morning looking for him, and could not explain why he had not bothered writing a few words, simply to reassure her that he was alright.

 

Then again, he was not, and he felt as if the time had come to stop pretending, for both of them.

 

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, taking a step closer, his hands reaching out into thin air, suddenly at loss for words or actions, caught between the lie that would make it all alright, and the truth that harboured so much pain and conflict.

 

“You haven't answered my question,” Sybil returned, very clearly attempting to maintain her posture and remain calm, but the accusation in her voice was unmistakable.

 

“I was nowhere. Just walking.”

 

“Just walking?” An impatience hung behind her words that was so unfamiliar, it seemed to trigger something inside of Tom, a final blow that pushed not just him, but Sybil also, across the edge of the wall of lies they had built around them over the last few days.

 

“Is that forbidden?” he snapped, the guilt of his words feeling equal to the relief of finally speaking his mind.

 

“What's the matter with you?” Sybil asked, her voice higher than usual, a veil of desperation clouding her eyes.

 

“I just...” Tom began, remembering the times his words had hurt her before, times he had allowed his temper to speak for him and she had ended up being hurt, “Forgive me.”

 

“No,” Sybil insisted, and Tom remembered the young woman who had stood up to her father in the drawing room last year, the young woman who had refused to return here until the very last moment, “What is it?”

 

They looked at each other for one long, quiet moment, both filled with anger and pent up frustration, an unspoken discussion they should have had weeks ago, apologies that should have been made before the escalation in the dining room the other night, problems that should not have been brushed over in favour of the wedding.

 

“Do you really need to ask, Sybil?” he asked, almost sadly, shaking his head ever so slightly.

 

For a moment, he thought he saw tears glister in Sybil's eyes, but she blinked so rapidly, perhaps to hide them from him, perhaps to hide them from herself, and only for a split second did they shine in the ray of sunlight that broke through the canopy of trees that granted them shade.

 

“I know it's hard, not just for you,” she began, anger and sadness equal in her trembling but determined voice, “But you've been so distant lately, and I don't know why. Did I do anything? Did I say anything that-”

 

“No, Sybil,” Tom interrupted her, the blame in her eyes too much to bear, so wrong. “No. It's not your fault. I just feel so wrong here.”

 

“This was your idea!” Sybil cried, voice raised, and for Tom, the sound hit home.

 

“I know,” Tom replied, his voice also louder than necessary, and he wondered how everything had changed so suddenly, how they had fallen asleep wrapped up in each other's arms last night, only to end up the next day, standing several feet apart, shouting at each other, “I wanted to keep you safe and I still do. But my mother wrote, and ...she never _says -_ but they're all struggling, Sybil. You read the papers, you know things are so much worse than they say, you know what's happening, and I feel like I left them alone. Like I abandoned them.”

 

Tom suddenly felt a weight lifted from his shoulders, having spoken his mind, having finally revealed his worries. His mother had written several times, and he clung to each newspaper article like it would somehow tell him the whole truth. He knew so well they did not, and that his mother's reassurances of everyone's well-being was as much of a lie as his and Sybil's whenever they told each other they were fine. 

 

Sean's death, all the chaos and death that surrounded his family while he was far away, it all added up to the very guilt he had hoped to erase by taking Sybil back to England and keep her safe.

 

“Tom, you haven't abandoned them,” Sybil attempted to reassure him, her voice softer now as she took a determined step towards him, “They understand. But, we can go back, we don't need to stay here.”

 

“ _You_ do,” he countered, almost physically flinching at the idea of Sybil caught in the war torn world back home.

 

“No, I don't. I need to be with you,” Sybil insisted, her voice equal parts pleading and demanding.

 

“Don't be foolish.”

 

“I'm foolish? Is that so?” Sybil asked, her voice cold now, her back straight, and her arms crossing over her chest unconscious remnants of her aristocratic birth. Tom realized what he had said, and took a hasty step towards her, wanting to take it back, to apologize just as soon as he could breathe again. 

 

“Sybil-” he began softly, but she interrupted him, her voice becoming louder and angrier with every passing second.

 

“No. We are married, Tom, committed to each other, for better and for worse. If you think me foolish for wanting to be with you while I'm carrying with your child, then so be it. But you'll have to make up your mind. Do you want to stay or go back? I'll be alright with any of these decision. You're just going to have to make one!”

 

As she turned on her heels and began to walk briskly back to the house, Tom found himself standing under the large tree, all alone, in the silence of this beautiful day, not knowing a single answer to the questions plaguing his mind.

 

What was the decision he wanted to make? Which was the right one? _Was_ there even a right one? Could he leave Sybil behind in safely to care for his family? Could he risk taking her back there with him, risk not only her own life, but also that of the baby, their newborn child? Could he stay here with her, by her side just as he had promised, while his family struggled for their lives back home?

 

It was not until a few droplet of rain began to disrupt the sunny morning that Tom's feet began to move again, carrying him down the side of the house towards the courtyard and through the servant's entrance. He knew there was no one right decision to make. 

 

There never had been.


	10. children

_Children begin by loving their parents. As they grow older they judge them, sometimes they forgive them._

**Oscar Wilde**

 

Rain clouds speckled the sky like dust settling on a blank canvas. There was a cool breeze in the air, the organic smell of impending rain – so clear, so distinct.

 

Sybil's hands were cradling the swell of her belly, and she took slow, deliberate steps on the slightly slick path that led around the gardens. Her legs were aching, and with every step she took, Sybil began to feel her impatience growing. Not only had the instinct to protect her child grown larger with each day, but so too had the need to finally welcome the baby into the world in order to end the ache and strain on her own body.

 

Despite the heavy scent of rain in the air the fragrance of new blossoms filled Sybil's nostrils with the essence of spring. The life that was growing all around her seemed much more peaceful than the one she felt moving inside of her in this very moment. The child she carried made itself known, kicked and danced all day long, utterly wearing Sybil out. By contrast, the petals scattering the gardens with colour seemed to grow so much gentler, so much more subtlety. So very delicately that it seemed they were blooming out of thin air.

 

Sybil kept moving along the brick wall that encircled the gardens, the path laid out neatly in front of her feet. Never in her life had she felt this tired and exhausted. Countless nights without sleep had left their mark on her, despite her youth. The prospect of laying down in her soft bed seemed utterly tempting, even though she knew so well that it would only turn out to be an afternoon spent shuffling herself from one side to the other, wasting energy she did not have, only exhausting herself further.

 

The fresh air was what she needed; being outside gave Sybil a little room to breathe and to get away from the tension that seemed to span itself within the walls of the big house. Mary and Matthew's return from their short travel had not brought back the enthusiasm and delight of the pre-wedding phase: rather, everyone now walked around the house with broad shoulders and tense tempers.

 

Last week's fight with Tom was still vivid in Sybil's mind, and their handful of failed attempts at reconciling only made her feel all the more helpless.

 

She felt no blame or anger at Tom for wanting to support and protect his family as best as he could, neither did she blame herself for standing in his way or holding him back. No. If she were honest with herself, Sybil only felt anger towards the fact that she and Tom together could not seem to resolve the tension and the conflict lingering between them. As a couple, as husband and wife, as parents. For a reason she could not comprehend, they were apparently unable to determine the root cause of their problems, for neither the questions about their safety nor Tom's discomfort at Downton were really solely to blame for the dark turn they had taken.

 

Sometime over the last few months, somewhere down the road they had come, they must have hit some rock, must have missed some obstacle that steered them into the wrong direction.

 

Sybil wondered where this road would take them in the future, and the part of her that longed for peace and security rather than thrills and excitement understood that their journey would remain rocky for a little while longer.

 

.:.

 

Sybil sighed, pushing her palm flat against the small of her back. The plate of sandwiches in front of her was now gone, only a few pale crumbs left, and she watched as Tom brushed off the last bits sticking to his lips with the thick handkerchief.

 

The stormy weather and raging rain had made them terribly late for lunch, and they had returned from their trip to Ripon empty-handed.

 

Still tasting the faint freshness of strawberries on her tongue, Sybil let her eyes gaze out of the large windows, a constant grey cloud and web of rain blocking the view over the green, blossoming fields.

 

Tom's sigh interrupted her thoughts, and Sybil turned to see the blank expression in his eyes turn into a comforting smile when their eyes met.

 

“That will be all, Carson,” Sybil said. Carson, standing behind them with his usual mask of duty, nodded shortly. From the corner of her eye, Sybil could see the old butler shuffling around the table as Tom helped her out of her chair.

 

As strange and foreign as this luncheon was to the eyes of the ancient room, something about seeing Carson keeping everything running felt so utterly familiar and almost comforting to Sybil, that she felt herself grasping for Tom's hand.

 

Their eyes met for a moment as they made their way out of the dining room, the softness of the touch strong enough to shine over all dark clouds that the last weeks had brought over them, if only for a moment.

 

“Sybil, Tom, there you are,” Cora called from across the hall, full of enthusiasm and, had Sybil not known her better, so very oblivious to the tension spanning within the house, “Do you have a moment? There is something I would like to show you.”

 

“Of course, Mama,” Sybil replied, all the more aware of her fingers intertwined with Tom's.

 

Cora waved her hand nonchalantly, and made her way towards the grand staircase. Sybil, both curious and worried in response to her mother's untimely joy, began to take slow steps, relying heavily on Tom's support.

 

“Do you know what's going on?” he whispered as they followed Cora upstairs.

 

“I have no clue,” Sybil answered truthfully, wondering what on Earth would conjure such an adolescent joy on her mother's face.

 

As they passed their bedroom, Sybil felt astonishingly overwhelmed by the urge to sink into the soft bed and rest her aching body, to sleep until she woke up and her child was playing with one of her old dolls at the foot of her bed like she had done. The foggy memories of a golden haired doll in a light blue dress, her very own princess, accompanying her as she sat crossed-legged on Mary's bed, seemed so far away, yet so near.

 

Cora came to a stop in front of a room at the end of the hall, only a few doors away from Tom and Sybil's bedroom. The room had been unused and empty for as long as Sybil remembered, although she had faint memories of Edith hiding in there, looking out of the window and across the woods for hours in complete silence.

 

“I know you did not want me to get too enthusiastic, and I could not help but notice that there has been some struggle for the both of you,” Cora began, slightly more serious now, perhaps even nervous, and Sybil could feel her own hand become sweaty at her mother's words, “But, I believe, as long as we are still waiting for the baby to be born, we should be looking forward to it.”

 

There was a short, yet terribly awkward silence as Cora eyed the young couple in front of her, and Sybil, unsure whether or not she should be saying something, held on to Tom's hand even tighter, longing for some sort of silent support.

 

Finally ending the moment of tension, Cora slowly opened the door, ushering Sybil and Tom into the small room.

 

“What is this?” Sybil asked, completely taken aback by what she was seeing. Tom next to her stood in the room with his mouth gaping open, a look of utter disbelief that was mirrored in Sybil's.

 

The formerly cold and lifeless room with its bare floor, milky windows and dusty curtains was now like a beacon of light. The soft carpet that covered the floor was clean and bright, fluffier than anything Sybil had ever felt. Brightly patterned curtains framed the crystal-clear windows and the forest that lay behind them. The fireplace looked clean and inviting, a blue rocking chair - which Sybil vaguely remembered from her old nursery - standing by its side. By the window, she spotted an ancient rocking horse, which spurred memories of a young Mary sitting on its back just as she would on Diamond one day.

 

The one thing that caused the lump in Sybil's throat to really set in, that caused silent tears to gather in her eyes, was the crib that stood against the opposite wall, a plush chair next to it.

 

“It's a present. For the both of you.,” Cora replied with a bright smile, standing by the door with her hands folded against her stomach, “Well, all three of you, really.”

 

“Oh, Mama!” Sybil exclaimed, a flood of emotions overwhelming her. Frustration and joy, anger and happiness, as well as the stunning reality that her child would be born soon, and might sleep in this very crib in those glorious, early days of summer.

 

“I know, I know, you think it's too much,” Cora continued, a slightly weathered look in her eyes. “And I know that you'll be leaving. I can tell. Nevertheless, I so hope to see my first grandchild more than just once in my lifetime, and he or she will need a proper room to make Downton its home, as well, don't you think?”

 

Her mother's voice betrayed her; although light and optimistic, it was soaked with a sadness and defiance that Sybil was not used to seeing.

 

“Mama...,” she began, gently untangling her fingers from Tom's hold and taking a few steps towards her mother.

 

“No tears, my darling, no tears,” Cora comforted Sybil, meeting her halfway in a light embrace, “What do you think?”

 

“It's wonderful! Absolutely wonderful, isn't it, Tom?” Sybil exclaimed happily, beaming with a genuinely bright smile that was seen so rarely these days. She turned in her mother's arms to find Tom still inspecting the room unbelievingly.

 

“It is,” he replied, seeking out his mother-in-law's content smile, “Thank you.”

 

“There's no need to thank me,” Cora reassured him, stepping away from Sybil and making her way slowly back to the door, “I'll leave you two to inspect everything.”

 

With a proud and accomplished smile on her lips, she stepped into the much darker corridor, and, with a last glance at Sybil and Tom, turned the corner and walked away.

 

The wind howled outside, dark waves of forest green moving like the sea in a storm. Sybil let her eyes wander across each and every detail once more, her tired feet carrying her back towards Tom. He was leaning against the window frame, watching the storm upset the world outside.

 

“Do you mind?” Sybil asked quietly, resting her hand hesitantly against Tom's arm. She could not explain to herself why she did it, or what the gesture was meant to be. Comfort? Affection? Reassurance? Doubt?

 

“Sorry?” Tom asked confusedly, turning to see Sybil standing by his side.

 

“This,” she replied, pointing her free hand at the room that surrounded them, “The nursery. It's a lot, I know. Do you mind? We don't have to accept if it's-”

 

Tom's hand covering her own silenced her, and the warmth of his smile, the reassurance and genuine hint of peace seemed to momentarily erase all worries and sorrows.

 

“No, I don't mind,” Tom replied softly, taking in the room around them once more, with all its soft colours and gentle shapes, “It is a lot, that's true. But it's a gift and your mother is so excited.”

 

The mention of her mother changed the gentle sound of Tom's voice, a bitter-sweet and almost longingly painful echo to his comforting and reassuring words. Memories of the flat they had made their home in Dublin, of the broken street light and of the cold sheets of their bed, of the ray of light through the tiny curtain, of her former colleagues and, most importantly, of Tom's family flooded Sybil's mind. She wondered if she had suppressed these memories during their stay at Downton until now, for they seemed so utterly powerful and vivid, that she could feel salty tears stinging in her eyes.

 

The surge of sadness and longing, which she had heard as an echo in Tom's voice, was one she could only describe as homesickness. It felt so much like those months at the training hospital in York, back when she had been away from home for the first time. Or those first days in Dublin, when she had been undoubtedly happy and content with her decision, but overwhelmed by the reality of it all, compounded by her family being so very far away, all the way across the Irish Sea.

 

“I'm sorry, Tom,” she whispered, choking back the tears she did not wish to shed in front of her husband now,.“I'm sorry for how things are right now. I simply can't figure out how to make them better.”

 

“Don't speak as if they were your fault, Sybil,” Tom said tenderly, cupping her face gently in his hands, “I'm so torn, and I know you are, too. But this nursery reminds me of how excited and happy I truly am, and that we have so much to look forward to. I will find a way to help back home, to support my family. But you and the baby are my first priority, and I will be with you, by your side, from now on. I'm the one who should apologize for being so distant and for not speaking up sooner. I let things go too far.”

 

As Tom's lips pressed comfortingly against her own, Sybil felt a single tear spill over, leaving a salty trail down her cheek. She leaned into the kiss, craving any sort of intimacy, any of the contact that she and Tom had denied themselves lately. Her lips were urgent, her hands clinging to Tom's shoulders as tightly as possible. The warmth that seemed to radiate from his body seeped into her icy skin, and as they parted with a mutual sigh, Sybil immediately rested her cheek against Tom’s chest. On one hand, she wanted to hide her tears, wanted to keep that moment for herself, and on the other, she did not wish to leave Tom's embrace for even a single moment.

 

“This still does not settle anything,” she murmured against Tom's chest, feeling his breathing and his heartbeat even and peaceful beneath her. The sound and movement comforted her, and she slid one of her hands away from Tom's shoulders to rest against the side of her stomach, feeling their child move under her skin.

 

For a moment, the content of her nightmares flickered before her, the nameless, faceless children she had never had crying and reaching for her in her mind. It still sent shivers down her spine, although now, in this moment, Sybil had to admit to herself that the life that now presented itself in a cloak of horror to her, might have had one small advantage. Perhaps, had she followed the path laid out for her by her family, she would have been able to focus on nothing more than growing a human being inside of her, on nothing else than being peaceful and rested, whereas now, sometimes, she wondered where the time had gone, and how it was possible that within a few days and weeks, she would be a mother.

 

In the darkness of the night, when she felt safe that no one could creep into her thoughts, she sometimes felt herself admit that the arrival of her child would only add to the long list of problems there were no solutions for. It pained her, this admission, and she felt helpless and unkind. However, no matter how scared she was, and no matter how clear it was to her that there were harder times ahead than lay behind, she longed for the moment to hold her child in her arms, to look into the small pair of eyes and hold the little hand she now felt kicking her side.

 

“I know,” Tom whispered sadly, kissing the top of Sybil's head affectionately. His hand slowly stroked down her arm, before coming to rest on top of hers, hovering over their restless child.

 

“We don't have to stay here forever, you know that,” Sybil reassured him, leaning back to look up into Tom's tired eyes, wondering if she looked the same, “That was never the plan. I will not take any chances with our child's life, but I do want us to return to Dublin once everything calms down a little. And I am certain it will.”

 

Sybil did not see the smile or hint of happiness in Tom's eyes she had hoped for. Instead, his features seemed to harden, not in a stern way, but in a bitter way, as if reality had just dawned on him the way it dawned on Sybil every night when she tossed and turned in her sheets.

 

“Once we go back...,” Tom began quietly, his thumb drawing lazy circles against Sybil's cheekbone, “Things will not be like this.”

 

There was no need for any further definition of _this_. Sybil knew. There would be no nursery like this. There might be a hand-me-down crib squeezed somewhere in between a bed and a wall, there might be a worn out batch of clothes and a stained blanket. There would be no white silk or stuffed toys, no soft fabric and joyous colours.

 

“I know,” Sybil answered, mirroring Tom's resigned sigh from earlier. She was just about to reassure Tom that none of that mattered, as much as she wished to give their child all the joy and beauty in the world, hen a new voice stopped her to even utter a word.

 

“So, you really do plan to raise your child in poverty, with assassinations and riots just in front of your door?”

 

Sybil almost jumped out of Tom's embrace as they both turned quickly towards the door. Tom's hand pressed against the small of Sybil's back, a symbol of affection and support as they were faced with her father standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes stern.

 

“Papa?” Sybil asked hesitantly, knowing the look on her father's face, having feared it for as long as she could remember. Instinctively, she took a step closer to Tom, cradling her belly protectively, afraid of what was to come. She was sick of it, sick of feeing like a young child who had to be told off, but that was exactly how she felt in this moment.

“I truly wanted to believe that you were man enough to be a father, wanted to forget how unprofessional you acted,” Robert began, voice calm, but a fiery rage burning behind every word, which were directed at Tom with such brutality that Sybil felt herself grasp for his hand, “But I now see all my expectations coming true. Do you even realize how irresponsible you are? Is that really the place to raise your child? Can you not see past your selfishness?”

  
  


“Can you?”

  
  


Tom's words came so suddenly, so strongly, that Sybil found herself looking up at her husband, surprised and stunned by the confidence that reflected off his features, a confidence she knew had grown from the weeks of resentment.

  
  


“Excuse me?” Robert asked, as taken aback as Sybil was, but not seeing what she saw.

  
  


“I don't wish to fight again,” Tom continued, quietly, so much different from that night at the dinner table when all strings had ripped and all composure had crumbled, “But you have no clue, no idea of our life, and you judge us as if you had actually lived it.”

  
  


The sincerity in Tom's voice was almost painful to witness, and Sybil knew he only remained this calm and steady because he knew how much he had hurt her the last time, when he had made use of his right to crack. He had all the reason even now, and Sybil squeezed his hand tighter, grateful yet sad at the same time.

  
  


“Tom,” she murmured, meeting his gaze as he looked down at her, nodding reassuringly.

  
  


“Sybil, you-” her father's voice began to interrupt her, and in that moment, Sybil felt her own mask shatter, her own composure crumble, and the string of hope for reconciliation with her father tear.

  
  


“No, Papa,” she said sternly, a harsh sound so foreign to her voice, as she let go of Tom and rushed towards the door, “No.”

  
  


With a last glance at her father, filled with all the blame and rage, she pushed past him, rushing down the corridor towards her bedroom as quickly as her tired legs would manage, ignoring her father's shout of her name echoing from the walls surrounding her.

  
  


.:.

  
  


Her abandoned breakfast tray stood on the bed, the tiny bouquet of flowers looking oddly lost on the span of the ruffled sheets. Tom's empty tray next to it made the picture look rushed, and a story began to unfold in Sybil's mind that was so much more elaborate than the truth. It looked as if she had quickly put away her tray and rushed out of the door, never to return.

  
  


She knew the trays would have to go soon, yet she knew Anna would take care of that soon. Cradling her stomach with one hand, pressing the palm of the other against the aching small of her back, Sybil turned her eyes away from the chaotic bed towards the window, the June sun bright in the spotless blue sky. A walk through the gardens seemed utterly tempting in this moment, however, the dull ache that began to rapidly spread itself throughout her entire body made Sybil reconsider her short-lived desire.

  
  


Sighing, she reached out to open a window, the need for fresh air too overwhelming to be ignored entirely. The fresh breeze greeted her the instant the window opened with the familiar squeak, crisp and welcoming. Closing her eyes, Sybil took a deep breath, letting the smell of green and flowers, of sunlight and blossom wash over her.

  
  


The knock on the door interrupted her moment of peace, and she called out a quick _Yes_ , expecting Anna to return with Tom, who had taken a walk down into the village to send a telegram.

  
  


However, it was neither Anna nor Tom who stood in the doorway with a look of nervousness and doubt.

  
  


“Did Mama send you?” Sybil asked plainly as she turned away from her father, allowing her eyes to squeeze together in pain for a short moment when she was sure her father could not see. Ever since his outbreak last week, Sybil had avoided him entirely, barely leaving her room unless Tom or her sisters accompanied her for a walk around the grounds. Tom, who kept his promise of not leaving her side whenever he could, had a tray in their bedroom for each meal just like her.

  
  


In fact, Sybil had not seen her father since that afternoon in the nursery, even though her mother had pleaded with her to reconcile, at least to hear her father out or to give him one more chance, always one more.

  
  


There was not much fight left inside of Sybil now, and she longed to lean against the frame of the window for support.

  
  


“She did, but that is not why I am here,” Robert replied, just as plainly, no emotion evident in his voice, and Sybil wondered if he was here for a forced apology, or to add to his list of complaints and worries. She wished so dearly for him to apologize and for herself to find the strength to forgive him, for a little bit of peace. However, she knew that even if he did apologize, she would never be able to truly forgive him for all the pain he had caused her.

  
  


“Whatever it is you need to say, say it, please. I'm rather tired,” she said, not turning to look at her father, impatient to be alone again, or for Anna to finally return with Tom, for something steady, for some genuine support.

  
  


“I do love you, Sybil,” Robert admitted, his voice still steadfast, and Sybil felt something inside her chest curl painfully, his words bringing tears of despair into her eyes, “You are my daughter, and nothing will ever change that. I feel I must say it so bluntly for I have failed to let you know in the past. I do apologize for everything I said that hurt you, the last thing I wish is for you to be unhappy.”

  
  


Sybil sighed quietly, so quietly she was sure not even the bird resting by her open window could hear. There was no doubt in her heart that her father's words were the truth. She loved him dearly, and knew, knew _so well_ , that his intention was never to hurt her. That truth, however, changed nothing about the fact that he _had_ hurt her so badly, and that he would never fully understand, even with time, how happy she could be if only he let her go in peace.

  
  


“And yet you make sure that I am, time and time again,” she returned, trying hard to make her voice sound as strong and collected as Mary's, not to let her pain and heartache echo from each syllable. Perhaps she succeeded, perhaps the slight wince of pain towards the end was overheard by her father. She knew however, that she could never be quite as composed, quite so accurate as her eldest sister.

  
  


“I see no wrong in worrying about you, but I will admit I said things and judged things I can only observe from the outside, and if that caused you pain, then I am sorry,” Robert continued, and Sybil laughed wickedly, no humour left between her and the man who had once carried her on his shoulders.

  
  


“Tom was so sure you were going to come round, you know?” she told her father, turning her wedding band around her finger over and over again, “When he proposed to me, he said so. Now, I have to see he was wrong, and I don't know how that is supposed to make me feel.”

  
  


It was a conflict as ever present in her mind as all the other struggles that caused her so much sadness. He had been wrong. There was no doubt about it. Although her mother and sisters, and even her grandmother, were warming up to the man she loved so dearly, it was clear that Tom had been so wrong about her father.

  
  


She remembered the day he had promised her, and how she had not believed him. Perhaps she never had, not even the night she rushed to the garage with her heart beating faster than the wings of a bird, finally ready to give him the answer he had longed for. She had always known he was wrong about her father, and still, she had agreed to make that sacrifice. Now that the prize for her decision was so obvious, the ruins of her relationship with her father at her feet, she wondered if she had truly known the full repercussions of her decision.

  
  


“Can you not see why I can't?” Robert asked, and the sudden despair in his voice irritated Sybil. She turned, swallowing as another sting of pain shot through her lower back, meeting her father's eyes. He had stepped further into her room, arms hanging loosely by his side.

  
  


It was only in this moment, looking into her father's almost pleading eyes, that it fully dawned on her that she had hurt him too. Still, that realization - which did not come fully as a surprise - did not make her feel sorry, conjured no remorse.

  
  


“I appreciate you worrying for my safety and happiness, Papa. I truly do,” Sybil began, caught between her own pain and wanting to understand that which she had caused her father, “But have you such little faith in me that you don't trust my own decisions? I tried and tried as much as I could. I was half way to Scotland to elope and came back because I love you and Mama so much and did not wish to let you down. And yet you make me feel like a disappointment every single time you look at me.”

  
  


The words were flowing off her tongue freely, a wild stream of rage and frustration, and the tears were now swelling in her eyes like glassy curtains, the room and her father turning blurry and distant. In this moment, she longed so much for a genuine embrace, and for the world to be a better place, even if just for one minute. For just one minute, she wanted to forgive her father and be forgiven, wanted her love and life and decisions to be accepted and to be granted a place in her father's heart once more.

  
  


“Sybil-” Robert began, but Sybil knew now was not the time. She could not forgive him now, could see in his eyes that he might regret hurting her, but was not willing to take back what he had said, was not ready to accept. So, even though she could see so clearly that he wanted this to end as badly as she did, she turned away, ending this conversation, this daring attempt at returning to a place she knew was lost and destroyed. Perhaps, one day, they would be able to rebuild it and start over, as father and daughter, in acceptance and love.

  
  


Not today, not soon. But perhaps it was there, lingering on the horizon.

  
  


“Now if you'd be so kind to tell Mama to come up here. I already sent Anna for Tom,” Sybil said, back to the plain sound of her voice she had concentrated on so much before, only a slight veil of tears still choking her voice.

  
  


“What is the matter?” her father asked, slightly confused as she could hear, perhaps at the nature of her words or at the sudden change of atmosphere. So quickly everything had turned from despair and longing into a dry and cool exchange of words, and Sybil took another deep breath of fresh air, swallowing hard as she pressed her hand more urgently against the small of her back.

  
  


“I am having a baby, Papa. That is what is the matter.”

  
  


.:.

  
  


“I'll be back in a moment, my darling,” Cora said, quickly rushing out of the door, finally leaving behind a sense of quiet. Sybil sighed, shuffling as she sat upright in bed, leaning against the pile of cushions. Her hand pressed into the side of her stomach, needing to feel her child beneath her touch for as long as she still could.

  
  


“Where is Tom?” she asked, and Mary, who had been fidgeting with the pile of crisp, white towels by the table that had been set up, turned to look at her little sister. Sybil felt as if Mary was avoiding her a little, perhaps as intimidated by the situation she as was herself. For all these long months, this day had been certain, dreaded, feared, anticipated. Still, now that it was here, it seemed oddly unexpected, and Sybil wondered if she had missed the months passing by so quickly.

  
  


“I took him to the library,” Mary replied kindly, walking over to sit on the edge of the large bed, “I figured he'd find a way to distract himself.”

  
  


Sybil laughed. It was genuine, yet filled with a certain ache. She longed to have Tom by her side, to hold his hand, to feel him with her, now more than ever. He had kissed her goodbye earlier, lingering by her bedside, his hand intertwined so tightly with hers that her knuckles had turned white. Cora had ushered him out of the room, and ever since then, Sybil felt herself split in two, a part of her mind constantly with Tom, who now had nothing to do but wait.

  
  


“Surely he will,” she murmured, her eyes wandering off to look at the windows at the other end of the room, the sky now riddled with white, puffy clouds.

  
  


“Are you afraid?” Mary asked hesitantly, and when Sybil looked up at her older sister, she saw a hint of curiosity in her eyes that she was sure Mary was used to seeing from Sybil herself. It seemed that Sybil, although the youngest, was now the one with the most experience, the one to answer questions when asking their mother seemed too awkward and uncomfortable.

  
  


She wondered for a moment, looking for adjectives and embellishments to describe how she felt, despite from the pain that shot through her entire body every couple of minutes. She found none.

  
  


“Terrified.”

  
  


It all came crashing down on her then like an avalanche, so violent that she broke out into heavy sob, tears streaming down her face so rapidly, tears she had held in for far too long. All the realization hit her with full force: that in a few hours time, she might hold her baby in her arms, that in a few hours time, she might be gone, that in a few hours time, there might be no baby to cry and smile and warm her heart.

  
  


“Oh darling,” Mary sighed, taking Sybil's free hand in hers. The simple touch calmed Sybil, and, taking a few deep breaths, she felt her heartbeat return to a more normal pace.

  
  


The sudden jolt of pain distracted her from her fear entirely, and she grabbed Mary's hand tighter, eyes shut, breathing, for the first time ever, as if her life truly depended on it. Anna, who had been putting away Sybil's clothes, rushed to the bed, pressing a damp cloth to Sybil's forehead gently.

  
  


As the pain slowly faded away, Sybil released her vice grip her sister's hand, although never letting go entirely. She was grateful to have someone's hand to hold, grateful not to be entirely on her own. She smiled kindly at Anna, who returned the cloth back into the bowl of clear water on the bedside table.

  
  


With the pain merely an echo for now, Sybil remembered the cause for her tears, a chill running down her spine as she recalled the fear that had shaken her bones.

  
  


“If I... ,” she began quietly, not able to truly find the words for what she wanted to stay, “You have to make sure-”

  
  


Mary seemed to understand exactly what Sybil was talking about, quickly grabbing her youngest sister's hand tighter, shaking her head as she interrupted her.

  
  


“Sybil, darling, don't be ridiculous. No talk like this,” she said, almost sternly, with a stoic smile on her face. In this moment, Sybil knew her sister was just as afraid as she was herself, for she knew this smile, this reassuring glance that was not directed at her alone.

  
  


“No, Mary,” Sybil returned, needing to say these words while she still could, while her mind was still capable of forming these thoughts, while she still had the chance, while Mary would still listen. “I'm not saying I will. But you and I both know that I might. And if I do... you have to take care of Tom and the baby. I don't mean money-”

  
  


Mary's calm words, not so perfectly masking her fear in this moment, interrupted Sybil's rambling once more.

  
  


“I know what you mean,” she whispered, squeezing Sybil's hand, swallowing hard as the two sisters stared at each other for a long moment.

  
  


Sybil could see it, could see her sister carrying her child across the grounds, singing to her baby as the sun set, could see her comforting Tom, who would never forgive himself for something that he would have no responsibility for.

  
  


“Promise me,” Sybil demanded, feeling more tears gather in her eyes as she saw Mary's own eyes glistening.

  
  


“I promise, darling.”

  
  


“Good,” Sybil continued, looking down at the delicate embroidery on her dark blue nightdress, “I couldn't rest knowing they won't be looked after. And that my child would be robbed of its father.”

  
  


The thought alone was more painful than anything she had felt so far, ragged images of her child growing up within these walls, of Tom spending his dark days across the sea, of her child turning into one of the children from her nightmare.

  
  


“Darling, do not worry about anything like that now,” Mary reassured her, patting Sybil's hand somewhat awkwardly, the sincerity and graveness of this moment too much to bear for the both of them.

  
  


“That is easier said than done, I'm afraid,” Sybil admitted, forcing herself to smile fondly at Mary, who responded genuinely.

  
  


Sybil was about to thank her sister for being by her side, for the promise she had just made, and for everything she had done when another jolt of pain shook her, her fingers once more grabbing her sister's harder than ever before.

  
  


.:.

  
  


Tom could not remember ever feeling this terrified in his life, this helpless, this lost. His feet moved at a restless pace across the library, the dull thump of each step against the thick carpet turning into a constant sound like the ticking of a clock, so repetitive that, by now, he took no more notice of it.

  
  


Every now and then, his eyes turned towards the inviting red sofa, plush and comfortable as he now knew, yet he could not bring himself to take a seat, to linger, to rest. Instead, he looked away, and continued his walk from one end of the long room to the other, not one of the countless books so much as calling out to him, nothing distracting him from the pull he felt inside of him, from his heat beating so violently.

  
  


He wanted to be by her side, wanted to help her as much as he could, and yet, here he was, pushed out of their room to be left to his own devices, to wait. Wait. Wait.

  
  


How, even for one moment, he could have considered leaving Sybil behind in safety to return to support his family, he could not comprehend now. It had been hours since he had last seen her, last seen anyone with the exception of Carson, who had stiffly offered him something to drink, and Tom could not bear another minute.

  
  


It was all too much, and he knew nothing, could do nothing but keep pacing. Memories of a different restless night spent pacing like this rushed through his mind. That night of the count, when he had walked up and down in his cottage, waiting for someone to have the mercy to inform him whether or not she was alright, if he had lost his job, if he would ever see her again.

  
  


This night felt oddly similar, although now, it seemed amplified, as if his own heart were not beating in his chest but in hers, inside the chest of their child.

  
  


The only comfort that he had was the knowledge that Sybil's mother and sisters were with her, people he knew she loved so dearly, and who could probably offer more help and assistance than he ever could.

  
  


He stopped for a moment as the sound of rain began to drum against the large windows, the grounds on the other side of the worn out glass one grand veil of darkness. Raindrops were leaving trails down the glass, glistening. The dim light in the library granted Tom a look at his reflection in the window, the rapidly increasing raindrops like tears falling down his face.

  
  


“Tom?”

  
  


He turned so quickly that he felt dizzy for a moment, the large room in front of him shaking and rocking, everything losing its shape for a second.

  
  


Mary stood in the doorway, looking so different. Her hair was slightly dishevelled, a far cry from her usual perfect waves, her cheeks were flushed, her skin tired, circles under her eyes, and the way she carried herself into the room spoke of exhaustion.

  
  


“How is she?” Tom asked, a million scenarios and fears materializing in his mind as he rushed over towards Mary, “It's been so long, something is wrong, isn't it?”

  
  


He could not lose her, could not go on without her. If anything went wrong, he knew he would never find a single moment of rest and peace until the end of his days.

  
  


“Steady,” Mary said calmly, smiling at him reassuringly, “Nothing is wrong. There are some slight troubles with the baby's position, but nothing to panic about.”

  
  


Her words echoed in Tom's mind, and he struggled to comprehend anything she said, his ears ringing with fear so brutally that he longed for the night to be over and for morning to bring some clarity.

  
  


“How is she?” he finally managed to ask, deciding to trust his sister-in-law when she said that there was no need to worry prematurely.

  
  


“You know Sybil,” May said with a smile that he found no strength to return, “Perhaps better than I do. She's a fighter. She is worrying about you, actually.”

  
  


At this, Tom found himself sigh with relief, the hint of a smile washing over his face, which was quickly replaced by a terribly guilty feeling. The last thing he wanted her to do was worry about him, when she should be focussing on herself and their child entirely. He, in this moment, was of no importance.

  
  


“Please, let her know... I wish I could help,” he told Mary, his voice going quiet, unsure how she would take these delicate words.

  
  


Her smile, and the gentle nod of her head were enough to reassure him, and as she took another step closer to him, resting her hand briefly against his arm, he felt a surge of gratitude for this woman wash over him. It was new, and it felt foreign to him, but he was immensely grateful.

  
  


“You'll let me know if anything changes, won't you?” he asked, less tentatively now than before.

  
  


“Of course,” Mary confirmed, nodding as she began to turn back towards the door.

  
  


“And you'll hold her hand for me?”

  
  


Tom wanted to slap himself the moment the words passed his lips. Why would he say something like that, something so intimate, to a woman he barely knew, who had just begun to accept him into the family?

  
  


“I will,” Mary replied with a gentle smile before Tom could apologize for his words, and, as she left him alone in the library once more, he began to feel glad for having spoken them. It felt as if, at least from afar, he could help Sybil, could show some sign of support even though he was being kept away from her side.

  
  


Sighing, and rubbing his swollen, tired eyes, he walked back towards the window, staring at the disfigured reflection in the glass for a long time as the minutes passed by.

  
  


-

  
  


“It's terrible, isn't it? The wait, and not being able to help.”

  
  


Tom stopped walking, and was surprised to see his father-in-law standing in the small library, arms crossed, eyeing him with caution.

  
  


“It is,” Tom confirmed, eyes flickering back towards the night sky before resting on Robert, who took a few steps towards him.

  
  


“I remember when Mary was born,” he began, not really looking at Tom but sounding friendly nonetheless, “I was walking up and down the library all night, too, not sleeping a wink.”

  
  


Tom was surprised to see the soft flicker of nostalgia ghost across Robert's face. He stood and watched his father-in-law as he sat down on one of the rich, red chairs calmly. Confused as to what to make of the situation, of Robert's peaceful approach at a conversation, at the meeting in the middle of the night in a room he probably had no business being in. Tom remained standing, suddenly feeling lost under the high ceiling.

  
  


“It was different each time.,” Robert continued, and Tom wondered if he was even being considered as present, for these words seemed so utterly private, something he would expect his brother or brothers-in-law to tell him with a clap of the shoulder as he paced the hallways back home, “When Mary was born, I was nervous. With Edith, I was excited. And when Sybil came around, I was, well, almost impatient, so to speak.”

  
  


When Robert looked up and met his eyes, Tom knew, although he still had his doubts, that the words had really been directed at him. He was clueless how to respond, having gotten so accustomed to evasion and retaliation, that a normal, compassionate conversation seemed miles away.

  
  


“Did it all go well?” he asked, needing to say something to break the silence, his words led once more by the constant fear that boiled under his skin.

  
  


“Cora later told me that things looked quite bad for Mary at one point. But in the end, none of it matters. I can promise you that.”

  
  


Tom nodded, every single second of this conversation like an odd mirage, something out of a restless dream, vivid oddities conjured up by his mind due to the lack of sleep.

  
  


Robert waved his hand politely at the empty sofa in front of him. For a moment, Tom hesitated, still feeling all too restless to sit, but now feeling unable to decline the offer. His legs ached as he sat down, feeling Robert's eyes on him the entire time.

  
  


“You look awfully pale. You need to eat something,” Robert exclaimed, and Tom looked at him surprised and taken aback, “I starved myself all night and almost collapsed when I held Mary in my arms for the first time.”

  
  


The thought of Robert holding Mary in his arms seemed as foreign to Tom as this entire situation. From what he had witnessed over the years, Robert loved his eldest daughter dearly, and yet he could not help but wonder how that night so many years ago must have been for Robert. How he could have loved this tiny human being when it was not the boy he had surely hoped for.

  
  


In a way, Tom felt some more respect for Robert grow inside of him, not enough to make up for all the insults and degrading comments, not enough to make him appreciate Sybil's father as a member of the family he was being let into. But enough to, in this moment, sit in front of each other in peace, no quarrels necessary.

  
  


“I am not very hungry, your Lordship,” Tom replied, knowing he probably should find a bite to eat, but not feeling up to it, no appetite making itself known over the restlessness and fear.

  
  


Robert simply nodded, and the two men fell into silence. Tom wondered how far things had come, how, so many years ago, this had been the room when he had first seen his former employer, when all the stones that led to today had begun rolling. How did he now sit here opposite him in silence, waiting for the birth of his first child? How did it all play out? Robert being in the same room with him, awaiting the birth of his first grandchild, and all of it, all the fear and tension, strong enough to calm the quarrel that, a week ago, seemed to have finally torn apart what never had been given a chance to grow. A bond of family, even if it were to be a thin and weak one.

  
  


“Just make sure you'll let that child know how much you love it,” Robert said quietly as he suddenly stood, brushing his hand over his coat almost nervously, “That is the only advice that matters. I might have failed at that.”

  
  


He turned on his heel, already taking a few steps towards the door when Tom jumped up from his seat. He knew the words, he had no obligation to say them. He owed his father-in-law nothing. Still, he wanted things to be easier, and deep down, he even wanted to be accepted. Above all, however, he knew how much Sybil wanted all of it. _So desperately_.

  
  


“She knows how much you love her,” Tom said, watching as Robert stopped and turned around, “That it what makes this all so painful for her.”

  
  


His father-in-law looked at him for a long moment, seemingly caught between a thankful gesture and astonishment at the impertinence of the chauffeur speaking to him this way. Finally, after Tom had begun to prepare for more insults, he nodded, turning back towards the door before stopping once more.

  
  


“I'll tell them to fix something small in the dining room. I haven't had the chance to eat yet, either.”

  
  


Tom was given no time to agree or disagree, and he simply stared at the empty doorway where Robert had been standing a second ago. Perhaps they needed to give each other a chance. Perhaps it was worth it for the baby he was growing so impatient for, for the future he was so unbelievably afraid of.

  
  


As Tom walked back up towards one of the windows, he - just for one moment and despite all the danger and fear and threat - allowed himself to smile, a flicker of hope growing inside of him that seemed to lighten this load for a fragment of a second.


	11. troubles

_In Youth we learn; in age we understand._

**Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach**

Tom's feet moved so quickly down the corridor, it was a miracle that he did not lose all control over his balance and began tumbling along the thick and heavy rug laid out underneath him.

  
  


He tripped a handful of times running up the stairs, the tips of his shoes getting caught on the edge of almost every single step. At the rate his heart was beating, all control over his body seemed utterly lost anyway, though, and Tom could focus on nothing else but making it to that door, to finally end his own suffering, to finally _come home_.

  
  


His hair was a frenzied mess, and he had taken his coat off hours ago after breaking into a nervous sweat. Somewhere behind him, although he barely registered the sound, Anna was following him, her own steps quick, but not rushed. It had been she who had collected him in the library, who had finally ended the hours he had spent waiting, waiting, waiting. Had Tom not been in such a rush to see Sybil and their newborn child, he would have fallen into Anna's arms, so immensely thankful, completely overwhelmed by his gratitude for everything she had ever done for them.

  
  


Wiping the cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, Tom's heart stopped for a moment as he saw their bedroom door swing open. He was still approaching, only a few steps away now, as Doctor Clarkson stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him.

  
  


He looked tired himself, but content as he turned. When he spotted Tom rushing up towards him, a friendly smile stretched across his face.

  
  


“Congratulations,” he said as Tom stopped before him, reaching out his hand. Tom, utterly taken by the excitement bubbling in his veins, shook the doctor's hand with his own, shaking and trembling, eager to move on.

  
  


“How are they?” he asked, even though Anna had mentioned nothing of any problems, and he trusted her.

  
  


“Lady Sybil is very tired, but nothing out of the ordinary. And your daughter, she seems quite the lively and curious one,” Doctor Clarkson told him, “That's two fighters you have there.”

  
  


Tom could not contain the broad smile that stretched across his face, and with a quick, impatient nod, he wished the doctor goodbye and stepped past him. Coming to a stop in front of the white door, suddenly every nerve in Tom's body seemed to catch fire. The moment he stepped through that door, he would be a father.

  
  


It was too late for any doubts. This was it, the moment his life would change forever. Was he ready? Could he provide for a family of his own? Could he bear loving someone so terribly much as he knew his mother loved him and his siblings? Could he ever be a good role model for his child? Was he not a child himself, still? When did he stop being a child? When did all of this unfold?

  
  


His mind still spinning in circles and his heart pumping the blood furiously though his veins, Tom decided that despite all his fears, the moment had come, and that it would only take one small step to complete this journey, this road he and Sybil had travelled for months now. Even though they had seemed to drift apart along the way, Tom knew that the moment was near in which he and Sybil would meet again on different grounds. Not merely as husband and wife, but as parents, responsible for something so much more important than either of them.

  
  


With trembling fingers, Tom turned the doorknob, taking a deep breath as he stepped into the warm bedroom, the curtains drawn shut to protect from the bright rays of sunlight. Having watched the sun set and rise again, Tom felt as if he was taken back into the night, nothing inside the room indicating that it was the middle of the day, that the outside world was wide awake.

  
  


“Tom, there you are,” Cora exclaimed enthusiastically as she looked up from her spot on the edge of the bed. “We were worried you might have gotten lost on the way up here,” she teased.

  
  


Tom did not respond. He simply shut the door behind him carefully, eyes never straying from the sight in front of him, his body suddenly feeling very light, as if it were not his own.

  
  


“Tom,” Sybil said quietly, her voice raspier than usual and almost a whisper. The smile on her face seemed weary and tired, but there was a glow about her that Tom had never known, a reflection of such pure love and joy that it set his heart on fire.

  
  


“Sybil,” he sighed, relief washing over him like a wave of warmth on a cold winter's day. He stepped towards the bed, his feet clumsy, like those of a young boy.

  
  


Mary stood next to the bed, her arms folded protectively in front of her chest, and she turned to look at Tom as he stepped closer, her own face ashen with lack of sleep.

  
  


“Congratulations,” she said with a smile, resting her hand on Tom's arm once more. His only response was a short nod, the genuine smile on his lips speaking more of gratitude and respect than words ever could.

  
  


Stepping aside to make more room, Mary moved to the foot of the bed, next to her mother and Edith, and Tom could see them moving back a little out of his peripheral vision.

  
  


Slowly, he sat down at the edge of the soft bed, almost shyly, not knowing where to put his hands or what to say, not sure how to act. No one had ever explained this to him, had ever told him what to do when he felt his heart burst with so much love that it was painful and threatening to overtake him. He felt as though he was suffocating, drowning in this overwhelming love for his wife and child.

  
  


Sybil smiled at Tom softly, a film of glistening tears shining in her eyes as she cradled their daughter--wrapped in a soft white blanket--closer to her chest.

  
  


Tom found no words, could not even bring himself to smile. Not a single thing he could think of was enough to express what he felt, when, truly, he felt himself consumed by the love for the woman smiling at him after all these years, and for the tiny human being in her arms, eyes wide open and _alive_.

  
  


On its own accord, almost instinctively, Tom's arm reached out and his hand came to rest on Sybil's. Their daughter cradled by both of them, kept safe and secure in their arms. She was real, everything about her was real and that epiphany seemed too far away, too out of this world for Tom to grasp. The soft, porcelain tone of their daughter's skin, the button shape of her nose, her shiny, curious eyes, the thin fluff of dark, downy hair, the slight movement of the blanket as she breathed in and out. It was all real. This was neither a dream nor a nightmare, not like sand or silk or sparkling water that would slip though his fingers and be lost.

  
  


Tears burned in Tom's eyes, and he moved his fingers gently against Sybil's, looking up from their daughter's peaceful face to hers, seeing the smile so naturally on her features that it stole whatever composure he might have had. The tears spilled over, slowly running down Tom's face. He was quiet and his breathing steady, nothing but the shiny trails on his cheeks indicating that he was crying, and he knew it was neither happiness nor sadness that caused them to flow. He was overwhelmed, his body making use of the only healthy way to rid itself of the avalanche of emotions.

  
  


Sybil continued to smile at him contently, leaning a little towards him before both of their eyes came to rest on their daughter once more.

  
  


“She is so perfect, isn't she?” she whispered, her fingertip brushing against their daughter's cheek, feather light. Their daughter was so tiny, everything about her so delicate. Tom was grateful for the thick blanket wrapped around their baby, for he feared any movement might break or hurt her, for she was so unbelievably small. How had he never noticed? He had seen many babies in his life, but he had never truly seen how delicate and fragile they truly were.

  
  


“She is,” he murmured, voice thick with tears and the utter lack of control over himself. It was all too much, too much for a person to handle, and he wanted to sit here like this until the end of his time, until there were no more breaths to take and no more tears to shed. Here, where it was warm and safe and no harm would come close to his daughter, their child, safe in their arms.

  
  


His eyes met Sybil's, and she was shedding the very same tears as his. Leaning forward, his lips met hers briefly, a soft brush of lips, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings, mingled with tears, choked happiness and so many emotions between the two of them to fill all the blank pages of all the journals in the world.

  
  


“How are you feeling?” he murmured, needing the reassurance that Sybil was indeed alright, that there was no need to worry.

  
  


“Happy,” she breathed hoarsely, her breath warm against his skin, “I am so happy.”

  
  


Tom leaned in to kiss Sybil once more, heat flooding his veins that had no connection to the warm room. The sincerity of Sybil's words, the feeling of their daughter peaceful and safe between them, made Tom feel as if it were all that mattered in the world, all other worries momentarily fading away, making room for all the love and joy to fill him to the brim.

  
  


They parted with a mutual sigh, Tom's free hand raising to tenderly cup Sybil's cheek. Her face was flushed deeply red, her hair frizzy in the back, and some dark strands still clinging against her clammy skin. The exhaustion was clear in her every pore, but she still sat strong and awake, eyes inspecting Tom as much as he was her.

  
  


“You look miserable,” Sybil exclaimed with a throaty laugh, smiling as she leaned into his gentle touch. Tom knew what she meant, feeling as dishevelled as he most likely looked, but none of that mattered.

  
  


“I don't think I deserve to,” he said quietly, his thumb stroking Sybil's cheek softly, and he could not imagine what she had gone through, wishing so dearly that there could have been a way for him to help her, “I am so proud of you.”

  
  


Sybil's smile turned softer, almost reassuring, and Tom could not find the words to express how grateful he was to have her as his wife.

  
  


Their eyes fell back onto their daughter, who struggled slightly within the confines of the blanket, and Tom gathered the courage to reach out his own hand, his finger brushing against her cheek. The incredible softness of her skin almost brought a new wave of tears into his eyes, the utter innocence of the baby too much to bear.

  
  


“She looks so curious...so alert,” he murmured, admiring his daughter's wide open eyes, seemingly taking in the small space around her. Their daughter's own little world was so large compared to her; it harboured so many joys he meant to show her, and so many dangers he swore in this moment and in the deepest, most genuine and sincere corner of his heart, to protect her from.

  
  


“She looks like you,” Sybil whispered, tangling her fingers with his against the blanket, cradling their daughter between them even tighter, even more intimately. Tom saw no such resemblance, he only saw _life_ and promise, a whole future ahead of them that filled him with so much excitement and happiness that it scared him.

  
  


“I love you so much,” he whispered, taken over entirely by all the emotions pent up inside of him, squeezing Sybil's hand as he looked at her, desperately needing her to understand.

  
  


“I love you, too,” Sybil replied softly, and Tom felt reminded of that first night after their wedding, when she had been sleeping in his arms, breathing evenly, and he had felt so protective of her, yet so eager to show her the world, to help her make her dreams come true. Never before that night had he felt his love for her beat so strongly inside of him. Now, he felt it all over again, felt reminded of everything he loved, cherished, and admired about her, all the little details that had led them here.

  
  


A knock on the door interrupted the peaceful silence in the darkened room.

  
  


“Don't worry,” Cora said quickly just as Tom was about to push himself off the bed, and he was suddenly reminded of Cora, Mary and Edith still present in the room. He was too consumed by the moment to feel embarrassed about the tears that were beginning to dry on his skin, and as Cora stepped over towards the door, he turned back to his family, to the only thing in the universe he would ever truly care about until the moment his heart stopped beating. In truth, he felt as if his heart had been ripped out of his chest, and was now carried through the world by the young life under his hand.

  
  


Tom longed for the world to stop turning for just a few minutes, longed for a few moments without intruders, for a few moments of peace with his wife and daughter before the never ending machine that was life would turn and turn and would slowly burn away the adrenaline, allowing routine to settle in.

  
  


Tom heard the door open, but no words were spoken, and he did not care about anything other than the feel of Sybil's fingers intertwined with his own and the sight of their daughter, whose eyes were now growing tired, fluttering shut every now and again, so delicately and softly.

  
  


“Papa?”

  
  


Sybil's surprised voice, so thick with exhaustion, reminded Tom that the world did indeed still turn, and he looked up to see her attention drawn away from their daughter. He turned, Robert standing in the open doorway.

  
  


Cora's hand was resting on his arm, and he seemed quite uncertain standing in the room, something Tom was not used to witnessing from him. A few moments of silence passed, no words spoken, no signs of any exchange present. Tom's eyes flickered between his wife and his father-in-law, both of their eyes so alike, so very similar.

  
  


He understood now. Now that he could feel his own daughter breathing steadily beneath his touch, he understood the quiet, unspoken conversation between Sybil and Robert, the bond they shared that no one else could fully understand.

  
  


It filled his heart with a different sense of joy, a sense of peace, of settling dust, the satisfaction of a cleared argument, when he saw Sybil smile and nod in her father's direction and heard Robert's slow steps approaching them.

  
  


Tom shuffled a little to turn around, and he looked up at his father-in-law, a different kind of pride reflecting from the older man's eyes. No words were spoken and no apologies were made, and although in this moment, it felt as if there was neither sadness nor pain in the world, Tom knew their story had not reached anything resembling closure yet.

  
  


There were so many questions to answer, so many decisions to make and so many roads ahead to travel. There was so much life to live, so many conflicts to resolve, so much for just one lifetime.

  
  


But the smile slowly spreading across Robert's face seemed like a sign that there was light in the future, that not all the aches of the past must be carried on to another day.

 

Right now, there was no use in dwelling on unsettled conflicts and a lack of acceptance. In this moment, when Robert clapped his hand shortly, but genuinely on Tom's back, a small piece of the puzzle that was life seemed to find its place and come to rest.

 

There was so much more to sort out, so many more suns to watch set and rise. His daughter, now peacefully asleep in their arms, seemed only to show and emphasize the journey ahead of all of them, with all its ups and downs, its smiles and tears.

 

Whatever pains were still to come, this moment, as fleeting as it may be, gave Tom a sense of hope to tackle the future. Seeing the same spirit in Sybil's eyes, he squeezed her hand once more, and vowed to begin their journey anew.

 

_Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles._

**Charles Chaplin**


End file.
